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THE  UNIVERSITY 
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JOHN  GREENLEAF ' 
WHITTIER'S  POET-  nx 


!CAL  WORKS  . 


NEW  YORK,  THOMAS  Y. 
j^j  CROWELL  &  COMPANY,   jg 
PUBLISHERS   jt   ^ 


Poems 

of 


John  Greenleaf  Whittier, 


With  Biographical  Sketch 

BY 
NATHAN    HASKELL   DOLE 


NEW   YORK 

THOMAS   Y.   CROWELL   .&   COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


P  5 


COPYRIGHT,   1893  AND  1902, 
BY  THOMAS   Y.    CROWELL    &    CO. 


BANCROFT 

LIBRARY 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

MOGG  MEGONE,  1835    ....  i 

THE    BRIDAL    OF   PENNACOOK, 

1848  . 20 

LEGENDARY,  1846:  — 

The  Merrimack 34 

The  Norsemen 35 

Cassandra  Southwick  ...  37 

Funeral  Tree  of  the  Sokokis  41 

St.  John 42 

Pentucket 44 

The  Familist's  Hymn  ...  45 

The  Fountain 46 

The  Exiles 47 

The     New    Wife    and     the 

Old 51 

VOICES  OF  FREEDOM,  FROM  1833 
TO  1848:  — 

Toussaint  L'Ouverture     .     .  53 

The  Slave-ships      ....  56 

Stanzas 57 

The  Yankee  Girl     ....  59 

To  W.  L.  G 60 

Song  of  the  Free     .     .     .     .  61 

The  Hunters  of  Men  .     .     .  61 

Clerical  Oppressors      ...  63 

The  Christian  Slave    ...  64 

Stanzas  for  the  Times      .     .  65 


PAGE 

Lines    on   the    Anti-slavery 
Message       of      Governor 

Ritner,  1836 66 

The  Pastoral  Letter     ...     68 
Lines  for  Anti-slavery  Meet- 
ing, 1834 69 

Lines  for  Third  Anniversary 
of  British    Emancipation, 

1837 70 

Lines  on  British  Emancipa- 
tion, 1846 71 

The  Farewell  of  a  Virginia 

Slave  Mother 72 

The  Moral  Warfare     ...     73 
The  World's  Convention  of 
the  Friends  of  Emancipa- 
tion, 1840 73 

New  Hampshire      ....     76 

The  New  Year 77 

Massachusetts  to  Virginia    .     79 

The  Relic 82 

The  Branded  Hand  ...  83 

Texas 84 

To  Faneuil  Hall      ....     86 
To  Massachusetts  ....     86 

The  Pine-tree 87 

Lines  on  a  Visit  to  Washing- 
ton, 1845 88 

Lines   to   a  Young   Clerical 
Friend 90 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Yorktown 90 

Lines  written  in  a  Friend's 

Book 92 

Paean 94 

To  the  Memory  of  Thomas 

Shipley 95 

To  a  Southern  Statesman  .  96 
Lines  on  Pinckney's  Reso- 
lutions    and     Calhoun's 

Bill 97 

The  Curse  of  the  Charter- 
breakers    98 

The  Slaves  of  Martinique  .  99 

The  Crisis 102 

Miscella  n  eo  us . 

The  Knight  of  St.  John      .  104 

The  Holy  Land     ....  105 

Palestine 105 

Ezekiel,      chapter      xxxiii. 

30-33 i°7 

The  Wife  of  Manoah  to  her 

Husband 108 

The  Cities  of  the  Plain  .     .  no 

The  Crucifixion     .     .     .     .  1 1 1 

The  Star  of  Bethlehem  .     .  1 1 1 
Hymns  from  the  French  of 

Lamartine 113 

The  Female  Martyr  .     .     .  115 

The  Frost  Spirit   .     .     .     .  116 

The  Vaudois  Teacher    .     .  117 

The  Call  of  the  Christian  .  118 

My  Soul  and  I 118 

To  a  Friend 121 

The  Angel  of  Patience  .     .  122 

Follen 123 

To  the  Reformers  of  Eng- 
land        124 

The  Quaker  of  the  Olden 

Time 125 

The  Reformer  .  126 


PAGE 

The  Prisoner  for  Debt  .     .  127 
Lines  on  Clergymen's  Views 

of  the  Gallows  ....  128 

The  Human  Sacrifice     .     .  130 

Randolph  of  Roanoke    .     .  133 

Democracy 134 

To  Ronge 135 

ChalkleyHall 136 

To  J.  P 137 

The  Cypress-tree  of  Ceylon  138 

A  Dream  of  Summer      .     .  1 39 

To 139 

Leggett's  Monument      .     .  141 

SONGS  OF  LABOR,  AND  OTHER 
POEMS,  1850:  — 

Dedication 142 

The  Ship-builders      .     .     .  143 

The  Shoemakers  ....  144 

The  Drovers 145 

The  Fishermen      .     .     .     .  146 

The  Huskers 147 

The  Corn -song      ....  149 

The  Lumbermen  ....  149 
Miscellaneous. 

The  Angels  of  Buena  Vista,  1 5 1 

Forgiveness 153 

Barclay  of  Ury 153 

What  the  Voice  said      .     .  155 

To  Delaware 156 

Worship 156 

The  Demon  of  the  Study  .  158 

The  Pumpkin 160 

Extract  from  "  A  New  Eng- 
land Legend"    .     .     .     .  161 
Hampton  Beach    .     .     .     .  162 
Lines  on  the  Death  of  Silas 

Wright 163 

Lines  accompanying  Manu- 
scripts    164 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

The  Reward 165 

Raphael 165 

Lucy  Hooper 167 

Charming 168 

To  the  Memory  of  Charles 

B.  Storrs 169 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  S.  O. 

Torrey 170 

A  Lament 171 

Daniel  Wheeler     ....  172 

Daniel  Neall 174 

To  my  Friend  on  the  Death 

of  his  Sister 175 

Gone 175 

The  Lake-side 176 

The  Hill-top 177 

On    receiving    an    Eagle's 

Quill  from  Lake  Superior,  178 

Memories 179 

The  Legend  of  St.  Mark    .  180 

The  Well  of  Loch  Maree  .  181 

To  my  Sister 182 

Autumn  Thoughts     .     .     .  182 

Calef  in  Boston     ....  183 

To  Pius  IX 183 

Elliott 184 

Ichabod! 185 

The  Christian  Tourists .     .  186 

The  Men  of  Old    ....  187 
The    Peace   Convention  at 

Brussels 

The  Wish  of  To-day      . 

Our  State 

All's  Well 

Seed-time  and  Harvest  . 
To  A.  K. 


1 88 
190 
190 
191 
191 
191 


THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS,  AND 
OTHER  POEMS,  1852:  — 

The  Chapel  of  the  Hermits,     193 


Miscellaneous. 

Questions  of  Life  .... 

The  Prisoners  of  Naples     . 

Moloch  in  State  Street  .     . 

The  Peace  of  Europe 

Wordsworth 

To ,  after  a  Day's  Ex- 
cursion   

In  Peace  

Benedicite 

Pictures    

Derne 

Astraea 

Invocation 

The  Cross 

Eva 

To  Fredrika  Bremer  . 

April 

Stanzas  for  the  Times,  1850 

A  Sabbath  Scene .... 

Remembrance 

The  Poor  Voter  on  Election 
Day 

Trust 

Kathleen 

First-day  Thoughts    . 

Kossuth 

To  my  Old  Schoolmaster  . 

THE  PANORAMA,  AND   OTHER 
POEMS,  1856:  — 


PAGE 

I99 
201 
202 
203 
204 

2O4 
205 
206 
206 
207 
209 
209 
210 
210 
211 
211 
212 
2I3 
214 

215 
2I5 
2I5 
217 
218 
218 


221 


The  Panorama .... 
Miscella  n  eo  us . 

Summer  by  the  Lakeside    .  231 

The  Hermit  of  the  Thebaid,  233 

Burns 235 

William  Forster    ....  236 

Rantoul 237 

The  Dream  of  Pio  Nono    .  239 

Tauler 240 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Lines  suggested  by  reading 

a  State  Paper  ....  242 

The  Voices 242 

The  Hero 244 

My  Dream 245 

The  Barefoot  Boy  .  .  .  246 

Flowers  in  Winter  .  .  .  247 

The  Rendition 248 

Lines  —  the  Fugitive  Slave 

Act 249 

The  Fruit-gift 249 

A  Memory 250 

To  C.  S 251 

The  Kansas  Emigrants.  .  251 
Song  of  Slaves  in  the 

Desert 252 

Lines  to  Friends  arrested 

by  Slave  Power  .  .  .  252 

The  New  Exodus .  .  .  .  253 

The  Haschish 254 


BALLADS : — 

Mary  Garvin 255 

Maud  Muller 258 

The  Ranger 260 

LATER  POEMS,  1856-1857:  — 

The  Last  Walk  in  Autumn  262 

The  Mayflowers    ....  266 

Burial  of  Barbour ....  267 

To  Pennsylvania  ....  268 

The  Pass  of  the  Sierra  .     .  268 

The  Conquest  of  Finland  .  269 

A  Lay  of  Old  Time   ...  270 

What  of  the  Day?     ...  270 

The  First  Flowers     .     .     .  271 

My  Namesake 272 


HOME  BALLADS,  1860:  — 
The  Witch's  Daughter  . 


275 


PAGE 

The  Garrison  of  Cape  Ann      279 
The   Prophecy   of  Samuel 
Sewall  .  ,281 


Skipper  Ireson's  Ride  .  . 
Telling  the  Bees  .... 
The  Sycamores  .... 
The  Double-headed  Snake 

of  Newbury 

The  Swan  Song  of  Parson 

Avery 

The  Truce  of  Piscataqua  . 


POEMS  AND  LYRICS:  — 

The  Shadow  and  the  Light  295 

The  Gift  of  Tritemius    .     -  297 

The  Eve  of  Election .     .     t  298 

The  Over-heart     ....  299 
In  Remembrance  of  Joseph 

Sturge 300 

Trinitas 302 

The  Old  Bury  ing-ground    .  303 

The  Pipes  at  Lucknow  .     .  304 

My  Psalm 305 

Le  Marais  du  Cygne       .     .  306 

"The  Rock"  in  El  Ghor    .  307 

On  a  Prayer-book      .     .     .  308 

To  J.  T.  F 310 

The  Palm-tree 310 

Lines  for  the  Burns  Celebra- 
tion, 1859 311 

The  Red  River  Voyageur  .  312 

Kenoza  Lake 312 

To  G.  B.  C 313 

The  Sisters       314 

Lines  for  Agricultural  Ex- 
hibition       314 

The  Preacher 315 

The  Quaker  Alumni  .     .     .  321 

Brown  of  Ossawatomie  .     .  325 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

From  Perugia 326 

For  an  Autumn  Festival     .     327 

EARLY  AND  UNCOLLECTED  POEMS  : — 

The  Exile's  Departure   .     .  329 

The  Deity 329 

To  the  "Rustic  Bard"  .     .  330 

The  Album 331 

Mount  Agiochook      .     .     .  332 

Metacom 333 


PAGE 

The  Fratricide 335 

Eternity 337 

Isabella  of  Austria     .     .     .  338 

Stanzas 340 

The  Missionary     ....  341 

Massachusetts 345 

Address   on     Opening     of 

Pennsylvania  Hall,  1838  346 

The  Response 349 

Stanzas  for  the  Times,  1844  351 


JOHN    GREENLEAF   WHITTIER. 

CIRCUMSTANCES  determine  the  poet  ;  inheritance  determines  who  the  poet  shall 
be.  It  somehow  seems  to  be  a  marvellous  thing  that  a  thrifty,  plain  Quaker  stock 
should  come  to  such  a  flowering  as  was  seen  in  John  Greenleaf  Whittier.  That  iri- 
descent colors  should  play  over  the  Quaker  drab !  That  from  the  insignificant  chrys- 
alis should  emerge  the  brilliant  butterfly !  From  Keltic  origin  one  might  expect  any 
surprises.  Boyle  O'Reilly,  who  had  also  something  of  the  prophetic  spirit,  who  also 
threw  himself  generously  into  conflict  with  powers  that  did  their  best  to  crush  him 
and  make  a  martyr  of  him,  is  explained  by  the  fact  that  he  was  Keltic.  But  one 
scarcely  expects  a  singer  from  the  ranks  of  sober  Friends.  That  is  an  anomaly;  and 
to  explain  the  phenomenon  one  must  look  into  Whittier's  ancestry. 

Four  steps  bring  us  back  to  the  days  of  the  Puritans.  Whittier's  father,  John, 
born  in  1760,  was  the  tenth  child  of  Joseph,  born  in  1716,  the  ninth  and  youngest  son 
of  Joseph,  born  in  1669,  who  was  in  turn  the  tenth  and  youngest  child  of  Thomas, 
who  was  born  in  Southampton,  England,  in  1620,  and  sailed  for  America  in  the  good 
ship  "Confidence"  a  little  more  than  two  and  a  half  centuries  ago.  Thomas  Whittier 
was  no  common  man.  He  settled  on  the  Merrimack  River,  first  in  Salisbury,  then  in 
old  Newbury,  then  in  Haverhill,  where  he  built  the  house  in  which  his  famous  de- 
scendant was  born.  He  is  said  to  have  brought  the  first  hive  of  bees  to  Haverhill. 
In  those  days  Indians  frequently  scalped  and  murdered  defenceless  families  of  white 
settlers;  but  Thomas  Whittier  made  them  his  friends  and  disdained  to  protect  his 
house  with  flint-lock  or  stockade. 

Thomas  Whittier's  son,  Joseph,  married  the  daughter  of  the  Quaker,  Joseph 
Peasley,  and  thus  the  strain  which  in  those  days  was  regarded  as  a  disgrace,  but 
which  in  time  became  a  mark  of  distinction,  was  grafted  upon  the  Whittier  stock. 
The  poet's  grandfather  married  Sarah  Greenleaf,  a  descendant  of  a  French  exile, 
whose  name,  instead  of  being  perverted  like  the  Lummydews  (L'Hommedieux)  and 
the  Desizzles  (Des  Isles),  was  simply  translated  into  English.  What  part  this  Gallic 
blood  played  in  Whittier's  mental  make-up,  it  would  be  no  less  difficult  than  interest- 
ing to  determine. 

Whittier's  mother,  Abagail  Hussey,  was  descended  from  the  Rev.  Stephen  Bach- 
elor or  Batchelder  of  Hampton,  N.H.,  a  man  who  was  famed  for  his  "splendid  eye." 
This  feature,  which  is  generally  associated  with  genius,  seemed  to  have  been  inherited 
by  Whittier,  and  Daniel  Webster,  and  William  Pitt  Fessenden,  and  Caleb  Gushing. 

ix 


BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH. 


Dark,  expressive,  penetrating  eyes,  full  of  soul  and  flashing  with  sudden  lightning 
glances,  were  characteristic  of  the  "  Batchelder  eye,"  common  to  so  many  families  in 
New  Hampshire. 

Whittier's  father  married  at  the  age  of  forty-four  and  had  only  four  children, 
Mary,  John  Greenleaf,  who  was  born  September  17,  1807,  Matthew  Franklin,  and 
Elizabeth  Hussey. 

The  old  Whittier  farmhouse,  with  its  huge  central  chimney,  faces  the  south;  the 
front  lower  rooms  are  square,  with  fifteen-inch  oaken  beams  supporting  the  low  ceilings. 
The  poet  was  born  in  the  west  front  room,  the  two  small-paned  windows  of  which 
look  down  to  a  little  brook,  which  in  those  early  days,  says  Whittier,  "  foamed, 
rippled,  and  laughed  "  behind  its  natural  fringe  of  bushes.  Across  the  way  was  the 
big  unpainted  barn.  The  scenery  was  the  typical  landscape  of  New  England  —  a 
smooth,  grassy  knoll  (known  as  Job's  Hill),  woodland  composed  of  oaks,  walnuts, 
pines,  firs,  and  spruces,  with  sumachs,  which  in  the  autumn,  and  in  the  spring  as  well, 
are  gorgeous  with  many  colors.  Whittier,  however,  was  color-blind,  and  all  that 
splendid  display  counted  as  naught  to  him. 

Behind  the  house  was  the  orchard,  and  behind  the  orchard  a  clump  of  oaks,  near 
which  the  Whittier  graveyard  used  to  be. 

In  1798  the  farm  was  rated  as  worth  $200.  The  year  before  the  poet  was  born 
his  father  bought  one  of  three  shares  in  it  for  $600  of  borrowed  money,  and  the  debt 
was  not  cleared  for  a  quarter  of  a  century.  Money  was  scarce  in  those  clays.  And 
yet  John  Whittier  was  honored  by  his  townspeople,  was  frequently  in  the  public 
service,  and  entertained  men  of  note  at  his  humble  fireside. 

When  Whittier  was  seven  years  old,  he  went  to  school.  His  first  teacher,  who 
was  his  lifelong  friend,  was  Joshua  Coffin  of  old  Newbury. 

Still  sits  the  school-house  by  the  road, 

A  ragged  beggar  sunning; 
Around  it  still  the  sumachs  grow, 

And  blackberry  vines  are  running. 

Within,  the  master's  desk  is  seen, 

Deep  scarred  by  raps  official; 
The  warping  floor,  the  battered  seats, 

The  jack-knife's  carved  initial. 

The  charcoal  frescos  on  its  wall; 

The  door's  worn  sill  betraying 
The  feet  that,  creeping  slow  to  school, 

Went  storming  out  to  playing. 

It  stood  about  half  a  mile  from  Whittier's  home,  but  the  fount  of  knowledge  flowed 
during  only  about  three  months  in  the  year. 

At  home  the  library  was  scanty.  Only  twenty  books  or  so,  mostly  journals  and 
memoirs  of  pious  Quakers,  furnished  the  boy  home  reading.  He  would  walk  miles 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 


to  borrow  a  volume  of  biography  or  travel.  Naturally,  the  precepts  of  the  Bible, 
which  was  daily  read,  became  a  part  of  his  mental  and  moral  (ibre.  His  poems  are 
full  of  references  to  Bible  events  and  characters.  "  In  my  boyhood,"  he  says,  "  in 
our  lonely  farmhouse,  we  had  scanty  sources  of  information,  few  books,  and  only 
a  small  weekly  newspaper.  Our  only  annual  was  the  Almanac.  Under  such  circum- 
stances story-telling  was  a  necessary  resource  in  the  long  winter  evenings." 

When  Nature  sets  about  to  make  a  poet,  she  has  her  own  college.  These  appar- 
ent deprivations  are  enrichments.  They  concentrate  genius.  The  few  hours  of 
regular  schooling  were  counterbalanced  with  lessons  from  Dame  Nature  herself. 

Knowledge  never  learned  of  schools, 
Of  the  wild  bee's  morning  chase, 
Of  the  wild-flower's  time  and  place, 
Flight  of  fowl  and  habitude 
Of  the  tenants  of  the  wood; 
How  the  tortoise  bears  his  shell, 
How  the  woodchuck  digs  his  cell, 
How  the  ground-mole  sinks  his  well; 
How  the  robiu  feeds  her  young, 
How  the  oriole's  nest  is  hung; 
Where  the  whitest  lilies  blow, 
Where  the  freshest  berries  grow, 
Where  the  groundnut  trails  its  vine, 
Where  the  wood-grape's  clusters  shine; 
Of  the  black  wasp's  cunning  way, 
Mason  of  his  walls  of  clay, 
And  the  architectural  plans 
Of  gray  hornet  artisans  !  — 
For,  eschewingi books  and  tasks, 
Nature  answers  all  he  asks; 
Hand  in  hand  with  her  he  walks, 
Face  to  face  with  her  he  talks. 

He  goes  on  autobiographically :  — 

I  was  rich  in  flowers  and  trees, 
Humming-birds  and  honey-bees; 
For  my  sport  the  squirrel  played, 
Plied  the  snouted  mole  his  spade; 
For  my  taste  the  blackberry  cone 
Purpled  over  hedge  and  stone; 
Laughed  the  brook  for  my  delight 
Through  the  day  and  through  the  night, 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 


Whispering  at  the  garden  wall, 
Talked  with  me  from  fall  to  fall; 
Mine  the  sand-rimmed  pickerel  pond, 
Mine  the  walnut  slopes  beyond, 
Mine,  on  bending  orchard  trees, 
Apples  of  Hesperides ! 

There  was  scanty  time  for  play,  however;  that  perpetual  interest  was  eating  up 
the  meagre  products  of  the  farm;  boys  had  to  put  their  hands  to  the  plough.  "  At 
an  early  age,"  he  says,  "  I  was  set  at  work  on  the  farm  and  doing  errands  for  my 
mother,  who,  in  addition  to  her  ordinary  house  duties,  was  busy  in  spinning  and 
weaving  the  linen  and  woollen  cloth  needed  for  the  family." 

The  family  was  large,  consisting,  says  \Vhittier,  of  "  my  father,  mother,  my 
brother  and  two  sisters,  and  my  uncle  and  aunt,  both  unmarried."  In  addition 
there  was  the  district  school-master,  who  boarded  with  them. 

For  graphic  pen-pictures  of  this  group,  one  must  go  to  "  Snow-Bound."  There 
we  shall  see  Uncle  Moses,  with  whom  the  boys  delighted  to  go  fishing  in  the  dancing 
brook. 

His  aunt,  Miss  Hussey,  had  the  reputation  of  making  the  best  squash  pies  that 
were  ever  baked.  The  influence  of  pie  in  developing  character  must  not  be  over-i 
looked.  What  oatmeal  was  to  Carlyle,  what  the  haggis  was  to  Burns,  the  pie  was  to 
the  true  New  Englander.  It  will  not  be  forgotten  how  fond  Emerson  was  of  pie. 
Indigestion  and  poetry  have  a  certain  strange  alliance;  did  not  Byron  purposely 
exacerbate  his  stomach  in  order  to  coin  "Don  Juan"  into  guineas? 

Each  member  of  that  delightful  household  stands  forth  in  living  lines.  "  Snow- 
Bound  "  now  needs  no  praise.  It  has  been  accepted  as  the  typical  idyl  of  a  New 
England  winter,  the  sweetest  flower  of  New  England  home  life. 

It  is  greater  than  "  The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night "  because  it  was  written  more 
from  the  heart.  It  stands  with  "  The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night "  and,  though,  quite 
unlike,  may  have  been  inspired  by  Burns's  immortal  poem.  To  Burns,  Whittier  owed 
his  first  inspiration,  and  he  himself  tells  how  he  learned  first  to  know  the  Scotch 
poet.  A  wandering  Scotchman  came  one  day  to  the  Whittier  farmhouse.  "  After 
eating  his  bread  and  cheese  and  drinking  his  mug  of  cider,  he  gave  us  '  Bonnie 
Boon,'  '  Highland  Mary,'  and  '  Auld  Lang  Syne.'  He  had  a  full  rich  voice  and 
entered  heartily  into  the  spirit  of  his  lyrics."  When  he  was  fourteen,  Joshua  Coffin 
brought  a  volume  of  Burns's  poems,  and  read  some  of  them,  greatly  to  his  delight. 
Says  Whittier :  "  I  begged  him  to  leave  the  book  with  me,  and  set  myself  at  once  to 
the  task  of  mastering  the  glossary  of  the  Scottish  dialect  to  its  close.  This  was  about 
the  first  poetry  I  had  ever  read  (with  the  exception  of  that  of  the  Bible,  of  which  I 
had  been  a  close  student),  and  it  had  a  lasting  influence  upon  me.  I  began  to  make 
rhymes  myself,  and  to  imagine  stories  and  adventure."  When  pen  and  ink  failed 
him,  he  resorted  to  chalk  or  charcoal,  and  he  hid  away  his  effusions  with  the  care 
with  which  a  cat  hides  her  young  kittens. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 


It  is  interesting  to  know  that  recently  one  or  two  of  Whittier's  first  attempts  in 
rhyme,  in  Scotch  dialect  and  in  the  manner  of  Burns,  have  been  discovered. 

When  Whittier  was  in  his  eighteenth  year,  that  is,  in  1825,  he  wrote  several  poems 
which  found  their  way  the  following  year  to  the  Newburyport  Free  Press,  then  just 
established  by  William  Lloyd  Garrison.  The  Whittiers  subscribed  for  it,  and  in  the 
"  Poets'  Corner "  appeared  in  print  the  first  of  the  young  man's  published  verses, 
entitled  "  The  Exile's  Departure,"  written  in  the  metre  of  "  The  Old  Oaken  Bucket." 
It  is  noticeable  that  the  Exile  sings :  — 

Farewell,  shores  of  Erin,  green  land  of  my  fathers, 
Once  more  and  forever,  a  mournful  adieu. 

It  would  seem  that  Thomas  Moore's  Irish  melodies  must  have  fallen  into  his 
hands.  The  trace  of  Whittier's  reading  is  often  to  be  found  in  his  poems.  "  Mogg 
Megone  "  also  shows  the  insidious  influence  of  "  Lalla  Rookh."  "  The  Bridal  of  Pen- 
nacook"  is  Wordsworth,  pure  and  simple,  the  praise  of  whom  betrays  its  origin; 
but  not  as  yet,  and  not  until  long  afterwards,  did  he  succeed  in  attaining  felicity  in 
epithet.  It  was  also  the  day  of  the  Scott  and  of  the  Byron  fever,  and  Whittier  did 
not  escape  it. 

It  is  said  that  Whittier  was  mending  fences  when  the  carrier  brought  the  paper 
that  contained  his  first  printed  lines  and  the  editorial  notice :  "  If  W.  at  Haverhill 
will  continue  to  favor  us  with  pieces  beautiful  as  the  one  inserted  in  our  poetical 
department  of  to-day,  we  shall  esteem  it  a  favor."  Whittier  could  hardly  believe  his 
eyes.  He  accepted  the  invitation.  The  second  of  his  Free  Press  poems  was  in 
blank  verse  and  entitled  "  Deity."  He  confided  the  secret  to  his  sister.  She  in- 
formed Garrison  that  it  was  her  brother  who  wrote  them.  One  day  when  the  young 
poet  was  hoeing  in  the  cornfield,  clad  only  in  shirt,  trousers,  and  straw  hat,  he  was 
summoned  into  the  house  to  see  a  visitor.  It  proved  to  be  Garrison,  who  had  driven 
over  from  Newburyport  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  his  contributor.  He  insisted 
that  Whittier  showed  such  talent  that  he  ought  to  have  further  education. 

Whittier's  father  remonstrated  against  putting  notions  into  the  lad's  head.  "  Sir," 
he  said,  "  poetry  will  not  give  him  bread."  Besides,  there  was  no  money  and  no 
prospect  of  money.  Suddenly  a  way  opened.  A  young  hired  man  knew  how  to 
make  ladies'  shoes  and  slippers.  He  offered  to  teach  the  art  to  his  employer's  son. 
Mr.  Moses  Emerson,  one  of  Whittier's  early  teachers,  used  to  relate  how  Whittier 
worked  at  his  shoemaking  in  a  little  shop  which  stood  in  the  yard,  and  how  he  sat 
on  a  bench  amid  tanned  hides,  pincers,  bristles,  paste  pots,  and  rosin,  stitching  for 
dear  life. 

During  the  following  winter  he  earned  by  it  enough  money  to  buy  a  suit  of 
clothes  and  pay  for  six  months'  schooling  at  the  new  Academy  in  Haverhill.  Whit- 
tier wrote  the  ode  that  was  sung  at  the  dedication  of  the  new  building.  He  boarded 
at  the  house  of  Mr.  A.  W.  Thayer,  editor  and  publisher  of  the  Haverhill  Gazette. 
Naturally  the  young  poet  contributed  also  to  this  paper  some  of  his  verses.  He  was 
now  nineteen,  and  was  long  remembered  as  "  a  very  handsome,  distinguished-looking 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 


young  man  "  with  remarkably  handsome  eyes;  tall,  slight,  and  very  erect,  bashful  but 
never  awkward. 

Whittier  used  to  like  to  relate  the  story  of  his  first  visit  to  Boston.  He  was 
dressed  in  a  new  suit  of  homespun,  which  for  the  first  time  were  adorned  with 
"  boughten  buttons."  He  expected  to  spend  a  week  with  the  Greenes,  who  were 
family  connections.  Shortly  after  his  arrival  he  sallied  forth  to  see  the  sights.  He 
described  how  he  wandered  up  and  down  the  streets,  but  somehow  found  it  different 
from  what  he  expected.  The  crowd  was  worse  on  Washington  Street,  and  he  soon 
got  tired  of  being  jostled  and  thought  he  would  step  aside  into  an  alley-way  and 
wait  till  "  the  folks  "  got  by.  But  there  was  no  cessation  of  the  "  terrible  stream 
of  people,"  some  of  whom  stared  at  him  with  curious  or  mocking  eyes.  He  stayed 
there  a  long  time  and  began  to  be  "  lonesome." 

At  last,  however,  he  mustered  courage  to  leave  his  "  coign  of  vantage,"  and 
safely  reached  Mrs.  Greene's  in  time  for  tea.  She  had  guests,  among  them  a  gay 
young  woman*whose  beauty  and  vivacity  especially  interested  him.  But  she  began 
to  talk  about  the  theatre,  and  finally  asked  him  to  be  present  that  evening.  She  was 
the  leading  lady !  Whittier  had  promised  his  mother  that  he  would  never  enter  a 
playhouse.  He  was  terribly  shocked  at  the-danger  which  he  had  run.  He  could  not 
sleep  that  night,  and  next  morning  he  took  the  early  stage-coach  for  his  country 
home.  In  after  years  he  told  this  story  with  great  zest,  but  he  never  broke  the 
promise  which  he  made  to  his  mother. 

At  the  close  of  the  term,  W7hittier  taught  the  district  school  at  West  Amesbury, 
thus  enabling  him  to  return  for  another  six  months  at  the  Academy.  Garrison  had 
meantime  gone  to  Boston,  and  through  his  influence  Whittier  secured  a  place  there 
at  a  salary  of  nine  dollars  a  week  on  the  American  Manufacturer.  But  this  engage- 
ment was  of  short  duration.  In  1830  he  was  editing  the  Haverhill  Gazette.  He  was 
beginning  to  be  widely  known  as  a  poet.  Next  he  became  editor  of  the  New 
England  Weekly  Review  of  Hartford,  Conn.,  to  which  he  also  contributed  upwards 
of  forty  poems,  besides  sketches  and  tales  in  prose.  He  boarded  at  the  Exchange 
Coffee  House,  and  lived  a  solitary,  sedentary  life.  His  health  even  then  was  delicate. 
At  this  time,  if  ever,  occurred  the  hinted  romance  of  his  life.  Writing  of  a  visit  to 
his  home,  he  said :  "  I  can  say  that  I  have  clasped  more  than  one  fair  hand,  and 
read  my  welcome  in  more  than  one  bright  eye."  More  than  one  love-poem  dated 
from  this  time.  Long  afterwards  he  touched  upon  these  episodes  in  "  Memories  " 
and  in  "  A  Sea-dream."  But  Whittier  never  married. 

He  published  his  first  volume  in  1831,  —  "Legends  of  New  England,"  a  collection 
of  his  prose  and  verse.  This  was  afterwards  suppressed,  as  well  as  his  first  narrative 
poem,  "  Moll  Pitcher,"  published  the  following  year.  So  far,  with  much  promise,  he 
had  as  yet  shown  little  originality.  He  bade  fair  to  be  simply  a  poet.  But  two  years 
later  he  took  part  in  an  event  which  was  destined  to  change  the  face  of  all  things, 
not  for  him  alone,  but  for  his  country.  In  1833  he  helped  to  organize  the  American 
Anti-slavery  Society.  Henceforth,  during  a  whole  generation,  his  life  was  to  be  a 
warfare :  — . 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 


Our  fathers  to  their  graves  have  gone; 
Their  strife  is  past,  their  triumph  won; 
But  sterner  trials  wait  the  race 
Which  rises  in  their  honored  place,  — 
A  moral  warfare  with  the  crime 
And  folly  of  an  evil  time. 

So  let  it  be.     In  God's  own  might 

We  gird  us  for  the  coming  fight, 

And,  strong  in  Him  whose  cause  is  ours 

In  conflict  with  unholy  powers, 

We  grasp  the  weapons  He  has  given, — 

The  Light  and  Truth  and  Love  of  Heaven. 

Side  by  side  with  William  Lloyd  Garrison  stood  Whittier.  The  manifesto  of  the 
one  was  the  inspiration  of  the  other :  "  I  will  be  harsh  as  truth  and  as  uncom- 
promising as  justice.  I  am  in  earnest;  I  will  not  equivocate;  I  will  not  excuse; 
I  will  not  retreat  a  single  inch,  and  I  will  be  heard  !  " 

Whittier  in  the  same  spirit  sang :  — 

If  we  have  whispered  truth,  whisper  no  longer; 
Speak  as  the  tempest  does,  sterner  and  stronger; 
Still  be  the  tones  of  truth  louder  and  firmer, 
Startling  the  haughty  South  with  the  deep  murmur; 
God  and  our  charter's  right,  Freedom  forever, 
Truce  with  oppression,  never,  oh,  never  ! 

Nor  would  he  allow  the  charms  of  mere  literature  to  beguile  him  into  pleasant 
paths.  Putting  aside  melancholy,  sentimental  yearnings,  he  resisted  the  temptation, 
as  he  pathetically  sings  in  the  poem  entitled  "  Ego." 

The  question  of  slavery  began  to  be  borne  in  upon  him  even  before  he  settled  in 
Hartford.  On  his  return  home  he  made  a  thorough  study  of  the  subject  and  wrote 
a  twenty-three  page  pamphlet  entitled  "Justice  and  Expediency;  or,  Slavery  Con- 
sidered with  a  View  to  its  Rightful  and  Effectual  Remedy,  —  Abolition."  It  was 
printed  at  Haverhill  at  his  own  expense.  Its  argument  was  never  answered.  It  con- 
cluded with  this  eloquent  peroration :  — 

"And  when  the  stain  on  our  own  escutcheon  shall  be  seen  no  more;  when  the 
Declaration  of  Independence  and  the  practice  of  our  people  shall  agree;  when 
Truth  shall  be  exalted  among  us;  when  Love  shall  take  the  place  of  Wrong;  when 
all  the  baneful  pride  and  prejudice  of  caste  and  color  shall  fall  forever;  when  under 
one  common  sun  of  political  Liberty  the  slave-holding  portions  of  our  Republic  shall 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 


no  longer  sit  like  Egyptians  of  old,  themselves  mantled  in  thick  darkness  while  all 
around  them  is  glowing  with  the  blessed  light  of  freedom  and  equality  —  then  and 
not  till  then  shall  it  GO  WELL  FOR  AMERICA." 

This  preceded  and  led  to  his  appointment  as  one  of  the  delegates  of  the  great 
Anti-slavery  Convention  at  Philadelphia.  Next  to  Magna  Charta  and  the  Declaration 
of  Independence,  the  Declaration  of  Principles  then  formulated,  and  signed  by 
Whittier,  is  a  document  of  which  the  generations  unborn  will  be  most  proud.  A 
copy  of  it  framed  in  wood  from  Pennsylvania  Hall,  destroyed  by  a  pro-slavery  mob, 
was  one  of  Whittier's  most  precious  possessions. 

In  spite  of  his  stand  on  an  unpopular  side,  Whittier's  character  was  appreciated 
by  his  fellow-citizens.  He  was  elected  a  member  of  the  Massachusetts  State  legis- 
lature in  1835.  He  held  only  one  other  public  office  —  that  of  presidential  elector. 
But  the  people  of  his  own  communion  looked  askance  upon  his  political,  reformatory, 
and  literary  achievements.  He  was  even  brought  into  danger  of  discipline,  and  it  is 
said  that  in  his  later  days  he  used  to  remark  jokingly  that  not  until  he  was  old  would 
the  Quakers  of  his  society  show  any  willingness  to  put  upon  him  the  little  dignities 
from  which  his  position  as  a  reformer  had  in  his  youth  excluded  him. 

The  very  year  that  he  was  a  member  of  the  Massachusetts  legislature,  he  had  his 
first  experience  of  a  mob.  George  Thompson,  the  famous  English  abolitionist  and 
member  of  Parliament,  came  to  this  country  to  preach  abolition.  It  was  noised 
abroad  that  he  was  brought  over  to  disseminate  dissension  between  North  and  South, 
so  as  to  destroy  American  trade,  to  the  advantage  of  British.  This  noble  reformer 
had  narrowly  escaped  a  mob  in  Salem.  Whittier  invited  him  to  his  East  Haverhill 
home,  that  he  might  have  perfect  rest  and  quiet.  The  two  men  enjoyed  making  hay 
together  and  were  entirely  unmolested.  At  last  they  started  to  drive  to  Plymouth, 
N.  H.,  to  visit  a  prominent  abolitionist  there.  On  their  way  they  stopped  at  Concord, 
where  Thompson  was  invited  to  speak  on  reform. 

After  the  lecture  they  found  it  impossible  to  leave  the  hall,  which  was  surrounded 
by  a  mob  of  several  hundred  persons.  On  their  way  back,  they  were  assailed  with 
stones.  Whittier  declared  that  he  understood  how  St.  Paul  felt  when  the  Jews 
attacked  him.  Fortunately,  their  heads  were  not  broken,  but  they  were  severely 
lamed.  The  mob  surrounded  the  house  and  demanded  that  the  Quaker  and  his 
guest  should  be  handed  over  to  them.  His  host  opened  the  door  and  exclaimed : 
"  Whoever  comes  in  here  must  come  in  over  my  dead  body."  Decoyed  away,  the 
rabble  returned  with  muskets  and  a  cannon.  Their  lives  were  in  danger.  They 
managed  to  harness  a  horse,  and  then,  when  the  gate  was  suddenly  opened,  they 
drove  off  at  a  furious  gallop  and  escaped  from  the  hooting  mob,  which  one  of  them- 
selves afterwards  declared  was  like  a  throng  of  demons.  At  Plymouth  they  narrowly 
escaped  another  mobbing.  Not  long  after,  when  Whittier  was  attending  an  extra 
session  of  the  legislature,  the  female  anti-slavery  society  meeting  was  broken  up  by  a 
mob.  The  police  rescued  Garrison,  just  as  they  were  going  to  hang  him  to  a  lamp- 
post. Whittier's  sister  was  one  of  the  delegates,  and  the  two  were  stopping  at  the 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 


same  house.  Whittier  managed  to  remove  her  to  a  place  of  safety;  he  and  Samuel 
J.  May  sat  up  all  night  watching  developments.  Those  were  exciting  times. 

Most  of  the  year  Whittier,  like  Cincinnatus,  worked  his  farm.  His  father  had 
died,  and  the  brunt  of  the  burden  of  supporting  the  family  rested  on  him.  He 
was  often  seen  in  the  fall  of  the  year  at  the  head  of  tide-water  in  the  Merrimack, 
exchanging  apples  and  vegetables  for  the  salt  fish  brought  by  coasting  vessels.  In 
the  spring  of  March,  1838,  he  went  to  Philadelphia  to  edit  the  Pennsylvania  Free- 
man, which  had  its  offices  in  a  large  building  built  by  the  anti-slavery  people,  and 
named  Pennsylvania  Hall.  It  was  publicly  opened  on  the  fifteenth  of  May  with 
speeches,  and  a  long  poem  by  Whittier.  That  evening  a  stone  was  flung  through 
one  of  the  windows  of  the  hall.  This  was  the  preliminary  symptom  of  impending 
trouble.  The  next  day  a  mob  collected  and  disturbed  the  meetings  with  their  jeers 
and  yells.  On  the  third  day,  in  spite  of  the  association's  formal  demand  for  protec- 
tion, and  the  mayor's  promise,  the  building  was  given  into  the  hands  of  the  mob, 
which  sacked  it  and  then  set  it  on  fire.  The  firemen  refused  to  quench  the  flames 
and  were  complimented  by  the  Southern  press  on  their  noble  conduct.  One  paper 
printed  a  boasting  letter  from  a  participant  saying:  "Not  a  drop  of  water  did  they 
pour  on  that  accursed  Moloch  until  it  was  a  heap  of  ruins." 

A  charitable  shelter  for  colored  orphans  was  also  burned,  and  a  colored  church 
was  attacked  and  wrecked.  The  members  of  the  Pennsylvania  Anti-slavery  Society 
met  the  next  morning  after  the  outrage,  beside  the  smoking  ruins  of  their  hall,  and 
calmly  elected  their  officers  while  a  vast  mob  was  still  howling  around  them. 
Whittier's  investment  in  the  paper  was  lost,  but  he  stayed  in  Philadelphia  for  about 
a  year,  when  his  failing  health  compelled  him  to  return  to  Massachusetts.  The  East 
Haverhill  farm  was  sold  in  1840,  and  he  removed  with  his  mother,  sister,  and  aunt  to 
Amesbury,  which  was  his  legal  residence  through  the  rest  of  his  life.  Within  ten  or 
twelve  minutes'  walk  of  Whittier's  house  rises  Pow-wow  Hill,  so  often  celebrated  in 
his  verse.  The  surrounding  region  which  is  visible  from  it  has  been  well  called  his 
Ayrshire:  far  to  the  north  the  White  Mountains  are  dimly  visible,  —  his  beloved 
Ossipee  and  Bearcamp.  To  the  south,  Agamenticus  —  Adamaticus,  as  the  natives 
call  it  —  stands  in  its  purple  isolation.  The  Isles  of  Shoals  are  visible,  like  rough 
stones  in  a  turquoise  arch,  the  lone  line  of  beaches  which  he  often  called  by 
name,  and  the  rock-ribbed  coast  of  Cape  Ann.  Scarcely  a  point  which  had  not  a 
legend,  scarcely  a  legend  which  he  did  not  put  into  verse. 

After  the  death  of  his  sister  and  the  marriage  of  his  niece,  he  resided  during 
the  most  of  the  year  with  his  cousins,  at  their  beautiful  country-seat  at  Oak  Knoll, 
Danvers. 

The  storm  and  stress  were  past.  Henceforth,  for  the  most  part,  he  devoted  his 
genius  to  song.  His  watchword  was :  — 

Our  country,  and  Liberty  and  God  for  the  Right. 

He  was  not  afraid  to  lift  the  whip  of  scorpion  stings :  he  called  the  pro-slavery 
congressmen :  — 


cviii  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

A  passive  herd  of  Northern  mules, 
Just  braying  from  their  purchased  throats 
Whate'er  their  owner  rules. 

The  Northern  author  of  the  congressional  rule  against  receiving  the  petitions  of 
;he  people  in  regard  to  slavery  was  thus  held  up  to  execration :  — 

.  .  .  the  basest  of  the  base, 

The  vilest  of  the  vile,  —  ... 

*         *         *         *         * 
A  mark  for  every  passing  blast 

Of  scorn  to  whistle  through. 

When  he  felt  that  Daniel  Webster,  whom  he  had  so  much  admired,  was  recreant, 
le  wrote  against  him  that  tremendous  accusation  entitled  "  Ichabod."  He  never 
;eased,  however,  to  regret  the  severity  of  those  awful  lines,  which  make  Browning's 
'  Lost  Leader  "  sound  flat  and  insipid  in  comparison. 

Whittier  was  never  despondent.  In  the  darkest  hours  he  saw  the  rainbow 
Dromise  bent  on  high. 

He  cried  in  1844  to  the  men  of  Massachusetts:  — 

Shrink  not  from  strife  unequal ! 

With  the  best  is  always  hope; 
And  ever  in  the  sequel 

God  holds  the  right  side  up ! 

Fhus,  while  he  knew  how  to  apply  the  lash,  he  also  could  cheer,  and  encourage,  and 
idvise.  His  practical  common  sense,  his  clear  vision,  saw  far  ahead. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  write  the  history  of  Emancipation  and  not  recognize 
;he  influence  of  Whittier's  lyrics.  Lacking  in  imagination,  in  grace,  in  what  is 
commonly  called  poetic  charm,  often  clumsy,  ill-rhymed,  and  unrhythmical,  they  yet 
nave  an  awakening  power  like  that  of  a  trumpet.  Plain  and  unadorned,  they 
ippealed  to  a  plain  and  simple  people.  They  won  their  way  by  these  very  homely 
qualities. 

Whittier  learned  from  his  parents  the  art  of  story-telling.  Naturally,  the  Indians 
irst  appealed  to  him,  and  many  of  his  earliest  poems  have  the  Red-skins  as  their 
leroes;  speaking  of  "  Mogg  Megone"  many  years  after  it  was  written,  he 
;ays :  — 

"  Looking  at  it  at  the  present  time,  it  suggests  the  idea  of  a  big  Indian  in  his 
A'ar-paint  strutting  about  in  Sir  Walter  Scott's  plaid." 

But  the  early  history  of  New  England  was  full  of  folk-lore,  and  Whittier  had  the 
Ballad-maker's  instinct.  As  he  grew  older,  his  sureness  of  touch  increased.  The 
homely  names  conferred  on  his  native  brooks  and  ponds  fitted  into  his  verse, 
rhus :  — 


t 
BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 


The  dark  pines  sing  on  Ramoth  Hill 
The  slow  song  of  the  sea. 

The  sweetbriar  blooms  on  Kittery-side 
And  green  are  Eliot's  bowers. 

And  he  talks  about  the  "  nuts  of  Wenham  woods." 

One  could  quote  hundreds  of  such  felicitous  touches,  which  endear  a  poet  to  his 
neighbors  and  then  to  his  nation.  Catching  hold  of  the  New  England  legends  and 
turning  them  into  homely  rhymes,  as  a  ballad -singer  would  have  done  in  the  early 
days,  he  becomes  not  only  the  poet,  but  the  creator  of  the  legends.  The  very  mean- 
ing of  the  word  "  poet "  is  the  maker.  A  friend  sends  him  the  rough  prose  outline 
of  a  story  connected  with  some  old  house,  and  Whittier  easily  remodels  it  and  makes 
it  his  own.  Thus  he  is  the  Poet  of  New  England,  and  as  New  England  has  colonized 
the  West,  his  fame  spreads  over  the  whole  land.  He  gets  hearers  for  himself  by 
this  double  capacity.  He  is  the  ballad-maker;  and  in  this  view  he  stands  far  higher 
as  a  poet  than  in  his  nobler  but  less  poetic  capacity  of  Laureate  of  Freedom  and 
Faith.  The  word  "  Liberty"  has  a  hundred  rhymes;  the  word  "slave"  its  dozens. 
How  the  poet  is  put  to  it  when  he  wants  to  find  a  rhyme  for  "  love  "  !  "  Dove  "  and 
"  above  "  and  "  glove  "  are  about  all  the  words  that  are  left  to  him.  Whittier,  with 
his  ease  of  rhyming,  put  little  poetry  but  immense  feeling  into  his  anti-slavery  poems. 
Not  by  them  will  he  be  judged  as  a  poet. 

He  has  still  another  claim  on  us.  He  was  the  descendant  of  godly  men  and 
women.  No  American  poet  of  his  rank  was  so  distinctively  religious,  and  yet  his 
verse  is  absolutely 

undimmed 

By  dust  of  theologic  strife  or  breath 
Of  sect,  or  cobwebs  of  scholastic  lore. 

He  could  not  be  kept  within  the  narrow  limits  of  a  sect.  His  religion  was  a 
vital  principle  with  him.  Like  his  own  "  Quaker  of  the  Olden  Time,"  he  made  his 
daily  life  a  prayer.  Faith  in  God  was  supreme.  Read  any  of  his  hymns,  his  ad- 
dresses to  friends,  his  memorials  to  the  dead;  there  are  more  than  seventy  of 
them  gathered  in  the  second  volume  of  his  collected  works.  How  they  speak  of 
immortality  and  the  Eternal  Goodness  !  In  one  of  his  last  poems,  while  he  speaks 
almost  mournfully  of  sitting  alone  and  watching  the 

warm,  sweet  day 
Lapse  tenderly  away, 

he  calms  his  troubled  thought  with  these  words :  — 

Wait,  while  these  few  swift-passing  days  fulfil 

The  wise-disposing  Will, 
And,  in  the  evening  as  at  morning,  trust 

The  All-merciful  and  Just. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 


The  solemn  joy  that  soul-communion  feels 

Immortal  life  reveals; 
And  human  love,  its  prophecy  and  sign, 

Interprets  love  divine. 

One  of  his  letters  was  written  in  favor  of  a  union  of  the  numerous  sects  in  the 
one  vital  centre  —  the  Christ.  After  this,  it  seems  almost  ungracious  to  speak  criti- 
cally of  Whittier's  work.  He  himself  often  wished  that  at  least  half  of  it  were  sunk 
in  the  Red  Sea.  A  good  deal  of  his  early  work  had  indeed 

The  simple  air  and  rustic  dress 
And  sign  of  haste  and  carelessness 

which  he  attributes  to  it,  but  also  it  was 

More  than  the  specious  counterfeit 
Of  sentiment  or  studied  wit. 

He  calls  his  verse  "  simple  lays  of  homely  toil." 

He  may  have  written  commonplaces,  but  he  declared  that  he  could  not  trace  the 
cold  and  heartless  commonplace. 

'Whittier  was  utterly  color-blind;  he  also  declared  that  he  did  not  know  anything 
of  music,  "  not  one  tune  from  another."  "  The  gods  made  him  most  unmusical,"  he 
whimsically  remarked.  Lack  of  musical  ear  is  not  uncommon  in  poets.  Burns  was 
behind  all  his  schoolmates  in  that  respect.  Bryant  had  no  music  in  his  soul;  Byron 
also  lacked  it.  The  rhythmic  sense  atones  for  the  lack.  Whittier,  unlike  Lowell, 
did  not  try  to  write  in  the  Yankee  dialect,  but  his  origin  betrayed  itself.  The  long- 
suffering  "  r  "  was  absolutely  ignored.  We  have  such  rhymes  as  "  gone  —  worn  — 
horn";  "war  —  squaw";  "accurst — lust"  (as  though  he  pronounced  it  accust}  ; 
"water  —  escort  her";  "honor  and  scorner";  "off  —  serf";  "sisters  —  vistas"; 
"reward  and  God"  (such  infelicities  did  not  offend  his  taste);  "farmer — ham- 
mer"; "thus  —  curse";  "ever  —  leave  her — Eva";  "favors  —  save  us";  "tellers 
—  Cinderellas  ";  "  treasures  —  maize-ears";  "woody — sturdy";  "  Katahdin's  — 
gardens."  He,  like  Byron  (who  pronounced  "  camelopard  "  "  camel-leopard  "),  often 
put  the  wrong  accents  on  words:  "  strong-/z0A/,"  " a;z-cestral,"  "^/-troons,"  "grape- 
vine"  "  moon-shine,^  "  r^-mance,"  "  z>z'0-lin"  as  though  in  two  syllables.  True  to  his 
Quaker  origin,  he  rarely  makes  reference  to  music.  Once  he  speaks  of  "  The  light 
viol  and  the  mellow  flute."  He  rarely  indulges  in  comparisons.  In  that  respect  he 
is  like  the  author  of  the  Iliad.  As  a  general  thing  his  lines  flow  rather  monotonously 
in  the  four-line  ballad  metre;  he  was  neither  bold  nor  very  happy  in  more  compli- 
cated structures  of  verse.  His  few  sonnets  were  not  successful.  Sometimes  he 
allowed  the  exigences  of  rhyme  to  force  him  into  showing  the  Indian's  birchen  boat 
propelled  by  glancing  oars.  He  once  in  a  while  wrote  such  lines  as  these :  — 

The  faded  coloring  of  Time's  tapestry 

Let  Fancy  with  her  dream-dipt  brush  supply. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  xxi 

Whittier,  in  conversation  with  his  intimates,  possessed  a  remarkable  vein  of 
humor;  his  letters  are  full  of  drolleries,  but  he  seemed  to  have  little  sense  of  the 
ludicrous,  else  he  could  not  have  written  such  a  line  as 

Gurgled  the  waters  of  the  moon-struck  sea, 
or 

From  the  rude  board  of  Bonython 
Venison  and  succotash  have  gone. 

He  rarely  indulged  in  alliteration,  yet  we  find  "greenly  growing  grain"  and 
"  Summer's  shade  and  sunshine  warm."  In  one  place  he  boldly  indulges  for  rhyme's 
sake  in  such  bad  grammar  as  this  :  — 

When  Warkworth  wood 
Closed  o'er  my  steed  and  I. 

And  again :  "  twixt  thou  and  I."  In  spite  of  these  faults,  we  would  not  willingly  let 
a  line  of  Whittier's  verse  perish.  Even  the  fugitive  pieces  of  his  youth,  which  he 
himself  came  to  detest,  the  crudities  of  "  Mogg  Megone,"  are  interesting  and  valu- 
able. When  his  verse  is  studied  chronologically,  it  is  easy  to  see  what  constant 
progress  he  made.  It  was  the  noble  growth  of  a  New  England  pine,  which,  while 
the  branches  near  the  ground  are  dead  and  broken,  still  towers  up  higher  and  higher, 
with  ever  abundant  foliage  toward  the  sun-kissed  top.  And  what  pictures  he 
painted  ! 

Whittier,  without  the  advantages,  or  so-called  advantages,  of  college  training, 
without  ever  travelling  abroad,  a  hermit,  almost,  in  his  later  years,  keeping  aloof  from 
the  people,  painfully  suffering  from  constant  ill-health,  unable  to  work  half  an  hour  at  a 
time,  ranks  with  the  greatest  of  American  men  of  letters.  His  prose  is  simple  and  pure ; 
his  verse  goes  right  to  the  heart.  It  is  free  from  the  sentimentality  and  turbidity  of 
Lowell,  from  the  artificiality  that  we  sometimes  feel  in  Longfellow,  from  the  classic 
coldness  of  Bryant.  He  was  the  poet  of  the  people,  and  yet  the  cultured  find  no 
less  to  love  and  admire  in  him.  To  have  written  "  Snow-Bound  "  alone  would  have 
been  to  achieve  immortality.  But  Whittier  wrote  so  many  popular  poems,  which 
have  become  household  words,  that  I  have  not  even  attempted  to  enumerate  them  or 
the  date  of  their  appearing. 

He  lived  to  see  the  crown  of  immortality  unanimously  conferred  upon  him.  He 
lived  to  a  grand  old  age,  and  yet  he  has  said  that  for  many  years  not  merely  the  exer- 
tion of  writing  but  even  the  mere  thought  of  taking  his  pen  into  his  hand  brought  on 
a  terrible  headache.  Neither  could  he  read  with  comfort.  He  therefore  had  to  sit 
patiently  and  wait  for  Friend  Death  to  come  and  lead  him  into  that  world  where  he 
believed  the  loved  ones  were  waiting  to  welcome  him.  He  died  on  the  seventh  of 
September,  1892,  not  at  his  favorite  abiding-place  at  Oak  Knoll,  Danvers,  but  at 
Hampton  Falls,  N.  H.,  where  he  was  visiting  the  daughter  of  an  old  friend.  Pure, 
simple,  humble,  unspoiled,  full  of  love  to  God  and  man,  triumphing  in  his  faith, 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 


Whittier  went  forward  into  the  unknown.     Such  a  death  is  not  to  be  deplored.     He 
was  willing,  nay,  anxious  to  go. 

Let  the  thick  curtain  fall; 
I  better  know  than  all 
How  little  I  have  gained, 
How  vast  the  unattained. 

Sweeter  than  any  sung 

My  songs  that  found  no  tongue; 

Nobler  than  any  fact 

My  wish  that  failed  of  act. 

Others  shall  sing  the  song, 
Others  shall  right  the  wrong, 
Finish  what  I  begin, 
And  all  I  fail  of,  win  ! 

The  airs  of  heaven  blow  o'er  me, 
A  glory  shines  before  me 
•    Of  what  mankind  shall  be  — 
Pure,  generous,  brave,  and  free. 

Ring,  bells  in  unreared  steeples, 
The  joy  of  unborn  peoples  ! 
Sound,  trumpets  far  off  blown, 
Your  triumph  is  my  own  ! 

NATHAN  HASKELL  DOLE. 


NOTE    BY   THE   AUTHOR 

TO    THE    EDITION    OF    1 857. 

IN  these  volumes,  for  the  first  time,  a  complete  collection  of 
my  poetical  writings  has  been  made.  While  it  is  satisfactory  to 
know  that  these  scattered  children  of  my  brain  have  found  a 
home,  I  cannot  but  regret  that  I  have  been  unable,  by  reason  of 
illness,  to  give  that  attention  to  their  revision  and  arrangement, 
which  respect  for  the  opinions  of  others  and  my  own  afterthought 
and  experience  demand. 

That  there  are  pieces  in  this  collection  which  I  would  "  will- 
ingly let  die,"  I  am  free  to  confess.  But  it  is  now  too  late  to 
disown  them,  and  I  must  submit  to  the  inevitable  penalty  of 
poetical  as  v/ell  as  other  sins.  There  are  others,  intimately  con- 
nected with  the  author's  life  and  times,  which  owe  their  tenacity 
of  vitality  to  the  circumstances  under  which  they  were  written, 
and  the  events  by  which  they  were  suggested. 

The  long  poem  of  Mogg  Megone  was,  in  a  great  measure, 
composed  in  early  life ;  and  it  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say  that 
its  subject  is  not  such  as  the  writer  would  have  chosen  at  any 
subsequent  period. 

J.  G.  W. 

AMESBURY,  \%th  ^d mo.,  1857. 


PROEM. 

I  LOVE  the  old  melodious  lays 
Which  softly  melt  the  ages  through, 

The  songs  of  Spenser's  golden  days, 

Arcadian  Sidney's  silvery  phrase, 
Sprinkling  our  noon  of  time  with  freshest  morning  dew. 

Yet,  vainly  in  my  quiet  hours 
To  breathe  their  marvellous  notes  I  try ; 

I  feel  them,  as  the  leaves  and  flowers 

In  silence  feel  the  dewy  showers, 
And  drink  with  glad  still  lips  the  blessing  of  the  sky. 

The  rigor  of  a  frozen  clime, 
The  harshness  of  an  untaught  ear, 

The  jarring  words  of  one  whose  rhyme 

Beat  often  Labor's  hurried  time, 
Or  Duty's  rugged  march  through  storm  and  strife,  are  here. 

Of  mystic  beauty,  dreamy  grace, 
No  rounded  art  the  lack  supplies  ; 

Unskilled  the  subtle  lines  to  trace, 

Or  softer  shades  of  Nature's  face, 
I  view  her  common  forms  with  unanointed  eyes. 

Nor  mine  the  seer- like  power  to  show 

The  secrets  of  the  heart  and  mind  ; 

To  drop  the  plummet-line  below 
Our  common  world  of  joy  and  woe, 

A  more  intense  despair  or  brighter  hope  to  find. 

Yet  here  at  least  an  earnest  sense 
Of  human  right  and  weal  is  shown  ; 

A  hate  of  tyranny  intense, 

And  hearty  in  its  vehemence, 
As  if  my  brother's  pain  and  sorrow  were  my  own. 

O  Freedom  !  if  to  me  belong 

Nor  mighty  Milton's  gift  divine, 

Nor  Marvell's  wit  and  graceful  song, 
Still  with  a  love  as  deep  and  strong 

As  theirs,  I  lay,  like  them,  my  best  gifts  on  thy  shrine  ! 
AMESBURY,  \\thino.,  1847. 

xxiv 


POEMS   OF   WHITTIER. 


MOGG   MEGONE,    1835. 

[THE  story  of  MOGG  MEGONE  has  been  considered  by  the  author  only  as  a  framework 
for  sketches  of  the  scenery  of  New  England,  and  of  its  early  inhabitants.  In  portraying 
the  Indian  character,  he  has  followed,  as  closely  as  his  story  would  admit,  the  rough  but 
natural  delineations  of  Church,  Mayhew,  Charlevoix,  and  Roger  Williams  ;  and  in  so  doing 
he  has  necessarily  discarded  much  of  the  romance  which  poets  and  novelists  have  thrown 
around  the  ill-fated  red  man.] 


PART  I. 

WHO  stands  on  that  cliff,  like  a  figure 

of  stone, 
Unmoving  and  tall  in  the  light  of 

the  sky, 

Where   the   spray  of  the   cataract 
sparkles  on  high, 

Lonely  and  sternly,  save  Mogg  Me- 
gone? 

Close  to  the  verge  of  the  rock  is  he, 
While   beneath    him   the  Saco    its 
work  is  doing. 

Hurrying  down  to  its  grave,  the  sea, 
And  slow  through  the  rock  its  path- 
way hewing! 

Far  down,  through  the  mist  of  the  fall- 
ing river, 

Which  rises  up  like  an  incense  ever, 

The  splintered  points  of  the  crags  are 
seen, 

With  water  howling  and  vexed   be- 
tween, 

While  the  scooping  whirl  of  the  pool 
beneath 

Seems  an  open  throat,  with  its  granite 
teeth ! 

But  Mogg  Megone  never  trembled  yet 
Wherever  his  eye  or  his  foot  was  set. 
He  is  watchful :  each  form  in  the 

moonlight  dim, 
Of  rock  or  of  tree,  is  seen  of  him  : 


He  listens ;  each  sound  from  afar  is 

caught, 

The  faintest  shiver  of  leaf  and  limb  : 
But  he  sees    not  the   waters,   which 

foam  and  fret, 
Whose  moonlit  spray  has  his  moccasin 

wet,  — 
And   the   roar   of  their   rushing,   he 

hears  it  not. 

The    moonlight,    through    the    open 

bough 

Of  the  gnarl'd  beech,  whose  naked 
.  root 

Coils  like  a  serpent  at  his  foot, 
Falls,    checkered,    on    the    Indian's 

brow. 

His  head  is  bare,  save  only  where 
Waves  in  the  wind  one  lock  of  hair, 
Reserved  for  him,  whoe'er  he  be, 
More  mighty  than  Megone  in  strife, 
When,  breast  to  breast  and  knee  to 

knee, 

Above  the  fallen  warrior's  life 
Gleams,  quick  and  keen,  the  scalping- 
knife. 

Megone  hath   his  knife    and  hatchet 

and  gun, 
And  his  gaudy  and  tasselled  blanket 

on  : 
His   knife  hath  a  handle   with    gold 

inlaid. 


MOGG   MEGONE. 


And   magic   words   on    its    polished 

blade,  — 
'T  was  the  gift  of  Castine  to  Mogg 

Megone, 
For  a  scalp  or  twain  from  the  Yengees 

torn : 

His  gun  was  the  gift  of  the  Tarrantine, 
And    Modocawando's    wives    had 

strung 
The  brass  and  the  beads,  which  tinkle 

and  shine 
On  the  polished  breech,  and  broad 

bright  line 
Of  beaded  wampum  around  it  hung. 

What  seeks  Megone?     His  foes  are 

near,  — 

Gray  Jocelyn's  eye  is  never  sleeping, 
And  the  garrison  lights  are  burning 

clear, 
Where  Phillips'    men   their  watch 

are  keeping. 
Let  him  hie  him  away  through  the 

dank  river  fog, 

Never  rustling  the  boughs  nor  dis- 
placing the  rocks, 
For  the  eyes  and  the  ears  which  are 

watching  for  Mogg, 
Are  keener  than  those  of  the  wolf 
or  the  fox. 

He  starts,  —  there's  a  rustle  among 

the  leaves : 
Another,  —  the  click  of  his  gun  is 

heard! 

A  footstep  —  is  it  the  step  of  Cleaves, 
With  Indian  blood  on  his  English 

sword  ? 
Steals  Harmon  down  from  the  sands 

of  York, 

With  hand  of  iron  and  foot  of  cork  ? 
Has     Scamman,    versed     in    Indian 

wile, 

For  vengeance  left  his  vine-hung  isle  ? 
Hark!  at  that  whistle,  soft  and  low. 
How  lights  the  eye  of  Mogg  Me- 
gone! 

A  smile  gleams  o'er  his  dusky  brow,  — 
"  Boon     welcome,    Johnny    Bony- 
thon!" 


Out  steps,  with  cautious  foot  and  slow, 
And  quick,  keen  glances  to  and  fro, 

The  hunted  outlaw,  Bonython! 
A  low,  lean,  swarthy  man  is  he, 
With  blanket-garb  and  buskined  knee, 

And  naught  of  English  fashion  on  ; 
For  he  hates  the  race  from  whence 

he  sprung, 

And   he   couches   his   words   in   the 
Indian  tongue. 

"Hush,  —  let  the  Sachem's  voice  be 

weak  ; 

The  water-rat  shall  hear  him  speak,  — 
The  owl  shall  whoop   in  the  white 

man's  ear, 
That  Mogg  Megone,  with  his  scalps, 

is  here!" 
He  pauses,  —  dark,  over  cheek  and 

brow, 

A  flush,  as  of  shame,  is  stealing  now  : 
"Sachem!"   he  says,  "let  me  have 

the  land, 
Which    stretches    away  upon    either 

hand, 

As  far  about  as  my  feet  can  stray 
In  the  half  of  a  gentle  summer's  day,' 
From  the  leaping  brook  to  the  Saco 

river,  — 
And  the   fair-haired   girl,  thou   hast 

sought  of  me, 
Shall  sit   in  the  Sachem's  wigwam, 

and  be 
The  wife  of  Mogg  Megone  forever." 

There 's  a  sudden  light  in  the  Indian's 

glance, 
A  moment's  trace  of  powerful  feeling, 

Of  love  or  triumph,  or  both  perchance, 
Over  his  proud,  calm  features  steal- 
ing. 

"  The  words  of  my  father  are  very  good  ; 

He  shall  have  the  land,  and  water, 
and  wood ; 

And  he  who  harms  the  Sagamore  John, 

Shall  feel  the  knife  of  Mogg  Megone  ; 

But  the  fawn  of  the  Yengees  shall 
sleep  on  my  breast, 

And   the   bird  of  the  clearing  shall 
sing  in  my  nest." 


MOGG   MEGONE. 


"But,    father!'1  — and    the    Indian's 

hand 

Falls  gently  on  the  white  man's  arm, 
And  with  a  smile  as  shrewdly  bland 

As  the  deep  voice  is  slow  and  calm,  — 
"  Where  is  my  father's  singing-bird, — 

The  sunny  eye,  and  sunset  hair? 
I  know  I  have  my  father's  word, 
And  that  his  word  is  good  and  fair  ; 
But  will  my  father  tell  me  where 
Megone   shall   go   and   look   for   his 

bride  ?- 

For  he  sees  her  not  by  her  father's 
side." 

The  dark,  stern  eye  of  Bonython 
Flashes  over  the  features  of  Mogg 

Megone, 
In  one  of  those  glances  which  search 

within ; 

But  the  stolid  calm  of  the  Indian  alone 
Remains  where  the  trace  of  emotion 

has  been. 
"Does  the  Sachem  doubt?     Let  him 

go  with  me, 

And  the  eyes  of  the  Sachem  his  bride 
shall  see." 

Cautious  and  slow,  with  pauses  oft, 
And  watchful  eyes  and  whispers  soft, 
The   twain   are  stealing  through  the 

wood, 

Leaving  the  downward-rushing  flood, 
Whose  deep  and  solemn  roar  behind 
Grows  fainter  on  the  evening  wind. 

Hark! —  is  that  the  angry  howl 

Of  the  wolf,  the  hills  among?  — 
Or  the  hooting  of  the  owl, 

On  his  leafy  cradle  swung?  — 
Quickly  glancing,  to  and  fro, 
Listening  to  each  sound  they  go 
Round  the  columns  of  the  pine, 

Indistinct, -in  shadow,  seeming 
Like  some  old  and  pillared  shrine ; 
With  the  soft  and  white  moonshine, 
Round  the  foliage-tracery  shed 
Of  each  column's  branching  head, 

For  its  lamps  of  worship  gleaming! 
And  the  sounds  awakened  there, 


In  the  pine-leaves  fine  and  small, 

Soft  and  sweetly  musical, 
By  the  fingers  of  the  air, 
For  the  anthem's  dying  fall 
Lingering  round  some  temple's  wall ! 
Niche  and  cornice  round  and  round 
Wailing  like  the  ghost  of  sound! 
Is  not  Nature's  worship  thus, 

Ceaseless  ever,  going  on? 
Hath  it  not  a  voice  for  us 

In  the  thunder,  or  the  tone 
Of  the  leaf-harp  faint  and  small, 

Speaking  to  the  unsealed  ear 

Words  of  blended  love  and  fear, 
Of  the  mighty  Soul  of  all  ? 

Naught  had   the   twain   of  thoughts 
like  these 

As   they   wound   along   through  the 
crowded  trees, 

Where  never  had  rung  the  axeman's 
stroke 

On  the  gnarled  trunk  of  the  rough- 
barked  oak ;  — 

Climbing  the  dead  tree's  mossy  log, 
Breaking  the  mesh  of  the  bramble 

fine, 
Turning  aside  the  wild  grape  vine, 

And  lightly  crossing  the  quaking  bog 

Whose  surface  shakes  at  the  leap  of 
the  frog, 

And  out  of  whose  pools  the  ghostly  fog 
Creeps  into  the  chill  moonshine! 

Yet,  even  that  Indian's  ear  had  heard 
The  preaching  of  the  Holy  Word : 
Sanchekantacket's  isle  of  sand 
Was  once  his  father's  hunting  land, 
Where  zealous  Hiacoomes  stood, — 
The  wild  apostle  of  the  wood, 
Shook  from  his  soul  the  fear  of  harm, 
And  trampled  onthePowwaw's  charm  ; 
Until  the  wizard's  curses  hung 
Suspended  on  his  palsying  tongue, 
And  the  fierce  warrior,  grim  and  tall, 
Trembled  before  the  forest  Paul ! 

A  cottage  hidden  in  the  wood,  — 
Red  through  its  seams  a   light  is 
glowing, 


MOGG   MEGONE. 


On  rock  and   bough  and   tree-trunk 

rude, 

A  narrow  lustre  throwing. 
"Who's  there?"  a  clear,  firm  voice 

demands ; 

"Hold,   Ruth,  — 'tis  I,  the   Saga- 
more!" 
Quick,  at  the  summons,  hasty  hands 

Unclose  the  bolted  door ; 
And  on  the  outlaw's  daughter  shine 
The  flashes  of  the  kindled  pine. 

Tall  and  erect  the  maiden  stands, 
Like  some  young  priestess  of  the 

wood, 

The  freeborn  child  of  Solitude, 
And   bearing    still    the    wild    and 
rude, 

Yet  noble  trace  of  Nature's  hands. 

Her  dark  brown  cheek  has  caught  its 
stain 

More  from  the  sunshine  than  the  rain  ; 

Yet,  where  her  long  fair  hair  is  parting, 

A  pure  white  brow  into  light  is  start- 
ing ; 

And,  where  the  folds  of  her  blanket 
sever, 

Are  a  neck  and  bosom  as  white  as  ever 

The  foam-wreaths  rise  on  the  leaping 
river. 

But  in  the  convulsive  quiver  and  grip 

Of  the  muscles  around  her  bloodless 

lip,   _ 

There  is  something  painful  and  sad 
to  see ; 

And  her  eye  has  a  glance  more  sternly 
wild 

Than  even  that  of  a  forest  child 
In   its  fearless    and  untamed  free- 
dom should  be. 

Yet,  seldom  in  hall  or  court  are  seen 

So  queenly  aform  and  so  noble  a  mien, 

As  freely  and  smiling  she  welcomes 

them  there,  — 

Her  outlawed  sire  and  Mogg  Megone  : 
"  Pray,  father,  how  does  thy  hunt- 
ing fare? 

And,  Sachem,  say,  —  does  Scamman 
wear, 


In  spite  of  thy  promise,  a  scalp  of  his 

own  ?  " 

Hurried  and  light  is  the  maiden's  tone ; 

But  a  fearful  meaning  lurks  within 

Her  glance,  as  it  questions  the  eye  of 

Megone,  — 

An  awful  meaning  of  guilt  and  sin ! — 
The  Indian  hath  opened  his  blanket, 

and  there 
Hangs  a  human  scalp  by  its  long  damp 

hair ! 
With  hand  upraised,  with  quick-drawn 

breath, 

She  meets  that  ghastly  sign  of  death. 
In  one  long,  glassy,  spectral  stare 
The  enlarging  eye  is  fastened  there, 
As  if  that  mesh  of  pale  brown  hair 

Had  power  to  change  at  sight  alone, 
Even  as  the  fearful  locks  which  wound 
Medusa's  fatal  forehead  round, 

The  gazer  into  stone. 
With  such  a  look  Herodias  read 
The  features  of  the  bleeding  head, 
So  looked  the  mad  Moor  on  his  dead, 
Or  the  young  Cenci  as  she  stood, 
O'er-dabbled  with  a  father's  blood  ! 

Look!  —  feeling    melts    that    frozen 

glance, 

It  moves  that  marble  countenance, 
As  if  at  once  within  her  strove 
Pity  with  shame,  and  hate  with  love. 
The  Past  recalls  its  joy  and  pain, 
Old  memories  rise  before  her  brain, — 
The  lips  which  love's  embraces  met, 
The  hand  her  tears  of  parting  wet, 
The  voice  whose  pleading  tones  be- 
guiled 

The  pleased  ear  of  the  forest-child,  — 
And  tears  she  may  no  more  repress 
Reveal  her  lingering  tenderness. 

O,    woman     wronged,    can     cherish 

hate 
More  deep  and  dark  than  manhood 

may; 
But  when  the  mockery  of  Fate 

Hath  left  Revenge  its  chosen  way, 
And  the  fell  curse,  which  years  have 
nursed, 


MOGG   MEGONE. 


5 


Full  on  the  spoiler's  head  hath  burst, — 
When  all  her  wrong,  and  shame,  and 

pain, 

Burns  fiercely  on  his  heart  and  brain, — 
Still  lingers  something  of  the  spell 
Which  bound   her  to   the  traitor's 

bosom.  — 

Still,  midst  the  vengeful  fires  of  hell* 
Some  flowers  of  old  affection  blos- 
som. 

John  Bonython's    eyebrows  together 

are  drawn 
With  a  fierce  expression  of  wrath  and 

scorn,  — 

He  hoarsely  whispers,  "  Ruth,  beware ! 
Is  this  the  time  to  be  playing  the 

fool,  — 
Crying  over  a  paltry  lock  of  hair, 

Like  a  love-sick  girl  at  school  ?  — 
Curse  on  it!  —  an  Indian  can  see  and 

hear : 
Away,  —  and     prepare    our     evening 

cheer!" 

How  keenly  the  Indian  is  watching 

now 

Her  tearful  eye  and  her  varying  brow, — 
With  a  serpent  eye,  which  kindles 

and  burns, 

Like  a  fiery  star  in  the  upper  air : 
On  sire  and  daughter  his  fierce  glance 

turns  :  — 
"  Has  my  old  white  father  a  scalp 

to  spare? 
For  his  young  one  loves  the  pale 

brown  hair 
Of  the  scalp  of  an  English  dog,  far 

more 
Than  Mogg  Megone,  or  his  wigwam 

floor : 
Go,  —  Mogg  is  wise  :  he  will  keep 

his  land,  — 
And  Sagamore  John,  when  he  feels 

with  his  hand, 

Shall  miss    his  scalp    where  it   grew 
before." 

The     moment's     gust     of     grief    is 
gone,  — 


The  lip  is  clenched,  — the  tears  are 

still,  — 

God  pity  thee,  Ruth  Bonython! 
With  what  a  strength  of  will 
Are  nature's  feelings  in  thy  breast, 
As  with  an  iron  hand,  repressed! 
And  how,  upon  that  nameless  woe, 
Quick  as  the  pulse  can  come  and  go, 
While   shakes  the  unsteadfast  knee, 

and  yet 

The  bosom  heaves,  —  the  eye  is  wet,  — 
Has  thy  dark  spirit  power  to  stay 
The  heart's  wild  current  on  its  way? 
And  whence  that  baleful   strength 

of  guile, 

Which  over  that  still  working  brow 
And    tearful    eye     and     cheek,    can 

throw 

The  mockery  of  a  smile? 
Warned   by  her  father's   blackening 

frown, 

With  one  strong  effort  crushing  down 
Grief,  hate,  remorse,  she  meets  again 
The  savage  murderer's  sullen  gaze, 
And  scarcely  look  or  tone  betrays 
How   the   heart    strives    beneath   its 
chain. 

"Is  the  Sachem  angry, — angry  with 

Ruth, 
Because  she  cries  with  an  ache  in  her 

tooth, 
Which  would  make  a  Sagamore  jump 

and  cry, 

And  look  about  with  a  woman's  eye? 
No,  —  Ruth  will  sit  in  the  Sachem's 

door 
And  braid  the  mats  for  his  wigwam 

floor, 

And  broil  his  fish  and  tender  fawn, 
And   weave  his  wampum,  and  grind 

his  corn,  — 
For  she  loves  the  brave  and  the  wise, 

and  none 

Are  braver  and  wiser  than  Mogg  Me- 
gone ! " 

The  Indian's  brow  is  clear  once  more  : 
With  grave,  calm  face,  and  half-shut 
eye, 


MOGG   MEGONE. 


He  sits  upon  the  wigwam  floor, 

And  watches  Ruth  go  by. 
Intent  upon  her  household  care; 

And  ever  and  anon,  the  while, 
Or  on  the  maiden,  or  her  fare, 
Which   smokes    in   grateful    promise 
there, 

Bestows  his  quiet  smile. 

Ah,    Mogg   Megone!  —  what   dreams 

are  thine, 
But  those  which  love's  own  fancies 

dress,  — 

The  sum  of  Indian  happiness!  — 
A  wigwam,  where  the  warm  sunshine 
Looks  in  among  the  groves  of  pine,  — 
A    stream,   where,    round    thy    light 

canoe, 

The  trout  and  salmon  dart  in  view, 
And  the  fair  girl,  before  thee  now, 
Spreading  thy  mat  with  hand  of  snow, 
Or  plying,  in  the  dews  of  morn, 
Her  hoe  amidst  thy  patch  of  corn, 
Or  offering  up,  at  eve,  to  thee, 
Thy  birchen  dish  of  hominy! 

From  the  rude  board  of  Bonython, 
Venison  and  suckatash  have  gone,  — 
F*or  long  these  dwellers  of  the  wood 
Have  felt  the  gnawing  want  of  food. 
But  untasted  of  Ruth  is   the  frugal 

cheer,  — 

With  head  averted,  yet  ready  ear, 
She  stands  by  the  side  of  her  austere 

sire, 

Feeding,  at  times,  the  unequal  fire 
With  the  yellow  knots  of  the  pitch- 
pine  tree, 
Whose  flaring  light,  as  they  kindle, 

falls 
On  the  cottage-roof,  and  its  black  log 

walls, 
And  over  its  inmates  three. 

From  Sagamore  Bonython's  hunting 

flask 
The  fire-water  burns  at  the  lip  of 

Megone : 
"  Will  the  Sachem  hear  what  his  father 

shall  ask? 


Will  he  make'his  mark,  that  it  may 

be  known, 
On  the  speaking-leaf,  that  he  gives  the 

land, 
From  the  Sachem's  own,  to  his  father's 

hand?" 

The  fire-water  shines  in  the  Indian's 
•     eyes, 
As  he  rises,  the  white  man's  bidding 

to  do  : 
"  Wuttamuttata  —  weekan !    Mogg  is 

wise,  — 
For  the  water  he  drinks  is  strong 

and  new, — 
M egg's  heart  is  great!  —  will  he  shut 

his  hand, 
When    his    father    asks    for   a   little 

land?"- 
With  unsteady  fingers,  the  Indian  has 

drawn 
On  the  parchment  the  shape  of  a 

hunter's  bow, 

"  Boon  water,  —  boon  water,  —  Saga- 
more John ! 
Wuttamuttata, — weekan !  our  hearts 

will  grow ! " 
He  drinks   yet  deeper,  —  he  mutters 

low, — 
He    reels    on   his   bear-skin   to   and 

fro,  — 
His    head    falls    down    on  his  naked 

breast,  — 
He  struggles,  and  sinks  to  a  drunken 

rest. 

"  Humph  —  drunk  as  a  beast ! "  —  and 

Bonython's  brow 
Is    darker    than    ever     with     evil 

thought  — 
"  The  fool  has  signed   his   warrant ; 

but  how 
And  when    shall     the     deed     be 

wrought  ? 
Speak,  Ruth!  why,  what  the  devil  is 

there, 

To  fix  thy  gaze  in  that  empty  air?  — 
Speak,  Ruth !  by  my  soul,  if  I  thought 

that  tear, 

Which  shames  thyself  and  our  pur- 
pose here, 


MOGG   MEGONE. 


Were  shed  for  that  cursed  and  pale- 
faced  dog, 

Whose   green   scalp  hangs  from  the 

belt  of  Mogg, 

And  whose  beastly  soul  is  in  Satan's 
keeping,  — 

This  — this!"  —  he  dashes  his  hand 
upon 

The  rattling  stock  of  his  loaded  gun,  — 
"  Should  send  thee  with  him  to  do 
thy  weeping ! " 

"  Father!"  —  the  eye  of  Bonython 
Sinks  at  that  low,  sepulchral  tone, 
Hollow  and  deep,  as  it  were  spoken 

By  the  unmoving  tongue  of  death, — 
Or  from  some  statue's  lips  had  bro- 
ken, — 

A  sound  without  a  breath  ! 
"  Father !  —  my  life  I  value  less 
Than  yonder  fool  his  gaudy  dress ; 
And  how  it  ends  it  matters  not, 
By  heart-break  or  by  rifle-shot ; 
But    spare     awhile     the     scoff    and 

threat,  — 
Our  business  is  not  finished  yet." 

"  True,  true,  my  girl,  —  I  only  meant 
To  draw  up  again  the  bow  unbent. 
Harm  thee,  my  Ruth !  I  only  sought 
To  frighten  off  thy  gloomy  thought ; — 
Come, —  let  1s  be  friends !  "  He  seeks 

to  clasp 
His  daughter's  cold,  damp   hand   in 

his. 

Ruth  startles  from  her  fathers  grasp, 
As  if  each  nerve  and  muscle  felt, 
Instinctively,  the  touch  of  guilt, 
Through  all  their  subtle  sympathies. 

He  points  her  to  the  sleeping  Mogg : 
"  What  shall  be  done  with  yonder  clog? 
Scamman  is  dead,  and  revenge  is 

thine,  — 
The  deed  is  signed  and  the  land  is 

mine  ; 
And  this  drunken  fool  is  of  use  no 

more, 
Save  as  thy  hopeful  bridegroom,  and 

sooth, 


'T  were  Christian  mercy  to  finish  him, 

Ruth, 
Now,  while  he  lies  like  a  beast  on  our 

floor,  — 

If  not  for  thine,  at  least  for  his  sake, 
Rather  than  let  the  poor  dog  awake 
To  drain  my  flask,  and  claim  as  his 

bride 
Such   a    forest    devil  to  run   by  his 

side,  — 
Such  a  Wetuomanit  as  thou  wouldst 

make!" 

He  laughs  at  his  jest.     Hush  —  what 

is  there?  — 
The  sleeping  Indian  is  striving  to 

rise, 
With    his  knife   in  his   hand,   and 

glaring  eyes !  — 

"  Wagh !  —  Mogg  will  have  the  pale- 
face's hair, 

For  his  knife  is  sharp,  and  his  fin- 
gers can  help 

The  hair  to  pull  and  the  skin  to  peel, — 
Let  him  cry  like  a  woman  and  twist 

like  an  eel, 
The  great  Captain  Scamman  must 

loose  his  scalp ! 
And   Ruth,  when   she  sees   it,   shall 

dance  with  Mogg." 
His  eyes  are  fixed,  —  but  his  lips  draw 

in,— 

With  a  low,  hoarse  chuckle,  and  fiend- 
ish grin,  — 

And  he  sinks  again,  like  a  senseless 
log. 

Ruth  does  not  speak,  —  she  does  not 

stir; 

But  she  gazes  down  on  the  murderer, 
Whose  broken  and  dreamful  slumbers 

tell 
Too  much  for  her  ear  of  that  deed  of 

hell. 
She  sees  the  knife,  with  its  slaughter 

red, 
And  the  dark  fingers  clenching  the 

bear-skin  bed ! 
What  thoughts  of  horror  and  madness 

whirl 


MOGG   MEGONE. 


Through   the  burning  brain  of    that 
fallen  girl ! 

John   Bonython   lifts    his  gun  to  his 

eye, 
Its  muzzle  is  close  to  the  Indian's 

ear,  — 
But  he  drops  it  again.     "  Some  one 

may  be  nigh, 
And   I    would   not   that   even   the 

wolves  should  hear." 
He  draws  his  knife  from  its  deer-skin 

belt,  - 
Its  edge   with   his   fingers   is   slowly 

felt ;  - 
Kneeling  down  on  one  knee,  by  the 

Indian's  side, 
From  his  throat  he  opens  the  blanket 

wide ; 

And  twice  or  thrice  he  feebly  essays 
A  trembling  hand  with  the  knife  to 

raise. 

"  I  cannot,"  —  he  mutters,  —  "  did  he 

not  save 

My  life  from  a  cold  and  wintry  grave, 
When   the  storm    came   down   from 

Agioochook, 
And  the  north-wind  howled,  and  the 

tree-tops  shook, — 

And  I  strove,  in  the  drifts  of  the  rush- 
ing snow, 
Till  my  knees  grew  weak  and  I  could 

not  go, 

And  I  felt  the  cold  to  my  vitals  creep, 
And   my   heart's    blood    stiffen,    and 

pulses  sleep ! 

I  cannot  strike  him  —  Ruth  Bonython! 
In  the  Devil's  name,  tell  me  —  what's 

to  be  done  ?  " 
O,   when  the   soul,   once    pure    and 

high, 

Is  stricken  down  from  Virtue's  sky, 
As,  with  the  downcast  star  of  morn, 
Some  gems  of  light  are  with  it 

drawn,  — 
And,  through  its  night   of  darkness, 

play 

Some  tokens  of  its  primal  day, — 
Some  lofty  feelings  linger  still,  — 


The  strength  to  dare,  the  nerve  to 
meet 

Whatever  threatens  with  defeat 
Its  all-indomitable  will!  — 
But   lacks   the   mean    of   mind    and 
heart, 

Though  eager  for  the  gains  of  crime, 

Oft,  at  his  chosen  place  and  time, 
The  strength  to  bear  his  evil  part ; 
And,  shielded  by  his  very  Vice, 
Escapes  from  Crime  by  Cowardice. 

Ruth  starts  erect, —  with  bloodshot  eye, 
And  lips   drawn   tight   across   her 

teeth, 

Showing  their  locked  embrace  beneath, 
In  the  red  fire-light:  —  "Mogg  must 

die! 
Give  me   the   knife !  "  —  The   outlaw 

turns, 
Shuddering    in    heart    and    limb, 

away,  — 
But,     fitfully   there,    the     hearth-fire 

burns, 
And  he  sees  on 

shadows  play. 
A  lifted  arm,  a  tremulous  blade, 
Are  dimly  pictured  in  light  and  shade, 
Plunging    down  in   the    darkness. 

Hark,  that  cry 

Again  —  and  again  —  he  sees  it  fell, — 
That  shadowy  arm  down  the  lighted 

wall! 
He  hears  quick  footsteps  —  a  shape 

flits  by  — 
The    door    on    its    rusted    hinges 

creaks :  — 

"Ruth  —  daughter   Ruth!"    the  out- 
law shrieks. 
But   no    sound  comes   back,  —  he  is 

standing  alone 
By    the    mangled    corse    of    Mogg 

Megone! 


the  wall  strange 


PART    II. 

'T  is  morning  over  Norridgewock,  — 
On  tree  and  wigwam,  wave  and  rock. 
Bathed   in    the    autumnal    sunshine, 
stirred 


MOGG   MEGONE. 


At  intervals  by  breeze  and  bird, 
And  wearing  all  the  hues  which  glow 
In  heaven's  own  pure  and  perfect  bow, 

That  glorious  picture  of  the  air, 
Which   summer's    light-robed    angel 

forms 
On  the  dark  ground  of  fading  storms, 

With   pencil   dipped  in  sunbeams 

there,  — 

And,  stretching  out,  on  either  hand, 
O'er  all  that  wide  and  unshorn  land, 
Till,  weary  of  its  gorgeousness, 
The  aching  and  the  dazzled  eye 
Rests   gladdened,  on   the   calm  blue 
sky, — 

Slumbers  the  mighty  wilderness! 
The  oak,  upon  the  windy  hill, 

Its    dark    green    burthen    upward 

heaves  — 

The  hemlock  broods  above  its  rill, 
Its  cone-like  foliage  darker  still, 

Against  the  birch's  graceful  stem, 
And  the  rough  walnut-bough  receives 
The  sun  upon  its  crowded  leaves, 

Each  colored  like  a  topaz  gem ; 

And  the  tall  maple  wears  with  them 
The  coronal  which  autumn  gives, 

The  brief,  bright  sign  of  ruin  near, 
The  hectic  of  a  dying  year! 

The  hermit  priest,  who  lingers  now 
On   the   Bald    Mountain's   shrubless 

brow, 

The  gray  and  thunder-smitten  pile 
Which  marks  afar  the  Desert  Isle, 

While  gazing  on  the  scene  below, 
May  half  forget  the  dreams  of  home, 
That    nightly   with    his    slumbers 

come, — 

The  tranquil  skies  of  sunny  France, 
The  peasant's  harvest  song  and  dance, 
The  vines  around  the  hillsides  wreath- 
ing 
The   soft    airs    midst    their   clusters 

breathing, 
The  wings  which   dipped,  the  stars 

which  shone 

Within  thy  bosom,  blue  Garonne! 
And  round  the   Abbey's    shadowed 
wall, 


At  morning  spring  and  even-fall, 

Sweet   voices  in  the  still  air  sing- 
ing,— 
The  chant  of  many  a  holy  hymn,  — 

The  solemn  bell  of  vespers   ring- 
ing, —s- 
And  hallowed  torch-light  falling  dim 

On  pictured  saint  and  seraphim ! 
For  here  beneath  him  lies  unrolled, 
Bathed  deep  in  morning's  flood  of 

gold, 

A  vision  gorgeous  as  the  dream 
Of  the  beatified  may  seem, 

When,  as  his  Church's  legends  say, 
Borne  upward  in  ecstatic  bliss, 

The  rapt  enthusiast  soars  away 
Unto  a  brighter  world  than  this': 
A  mortal's  glimpse  beyond  the  pale,  — 
A  moment's  lifting  of  the  veil  ! 

Far  eastward  o'er  the  lovely  bay, 
Penobscot's  clustered  wigwams  lay ; 
And  gently  from  that  Indian  town 
The  verdant  hillside  slopes  adown, 
To  where  the  sparkling  waters  play 

Upon  the  yellow  sands  below  ; 
And    shooting    round    the    winding 

shores 

Of  narrow  capes,  and  isles  which  lie 
Slumbering  to  ocean's  lullaby,  — 
With  birchen  boat  and  glancing  oars, 

The  red  men  to  their  fishing  go  ; 
While  from  their  planting  ground  is 

borne 

The  treasure  of  the  golden  corn, 
By  laughing  girls,  whose   dark  eyes 

glow 
Wild   through   the   locks  wnich  o'er 

them  flow. 
The   wrinkled   squaw,   whose   toil  is 

done, 

Sits  on  her  bear-skin  in  the  sun, 
Watching  the  huskers,  with  a  smile 
For   each   full   ear   which  swells  the 

pile; 

And  the  old  chief,  who  nevermore 
May  bend  the  bow  or  pull  the  oar, 
Smokes  gravely  in  his  wigwam  door, 
Or  slowly  shapes,  with  axe  of  stone, 
The  arrow-head  from  flint  and  bone. 


MOGG   MEGONE. 


Beneath  the  westward  turning  eye 
A  thousand  wooded  islands  lie,  — 
Gems  of  the  waters!  —  with  each  hue 
Of  brightness  set  in  ocean's  blue. 
Each  bears  aloft  its  tuft  of  trees 

Touched  by  the  pencil  of  the  frost, 

And,  with  the  motion  of  each  breeze, 

A     moment     seen,  —  a     moment 

lost,  — 
Changing  and  blent,  confused  and 

tossed. 
The     brighter    with     the     darker 

crossed, 

Their  thousand  tints  of  beauty  glow 
Down  in  the  restless  waves  below, 
And  tremble  in  the  sunny  skies, 
As  if,  from  waving  bough  to  bough, 

Flitted  the  birds  of  paradise. 
There  sleep  Placentia's  group,  —  and 

there 
Pere   Breteaux    marks    the    hour  of 

prayer ; 

And  there,  beneath  the  sea-worn  cliff, 
On    which    the    Father's    hut    is 

seen, 

The  Indian  stays  his  rocking  skiff, 
And  peers  the  hemlock-boughs  be- 
tween, 

Half  trembling,  as  he  seeks  to  look 
Upon  the  Jesuit's  Cross  and  Book. 
There,  gloomily  against  the  sky 
The   Dark   Isles    rear  their  summits 

high ; 

And  Desert  Rock,  abrupt  and  bare, 
Lifts  its  gray  turrets  in  the  air, — 
Seen  from  afar,  like  some  stronghold 
Built  by  the  ocean  kings  of  old  ; 
And,  faint  as  smoke-wreath  white  and 

thin, 

Swells  in  the  north  vast  Katahdin : 
And,  wandering  from  its  marshy  feet, 
The  broad  Penobscot  comes  to  meet 
And  mingle  with    his  own    bright 

bay. 
Slow  sweep  his  dark  and   gathering 

floods. 

Arched  over  by  the  ancient  woods, 
Which  Time,  in  those  dim  solitudes, 
Wielding  the  dull  axe  of  Decay, 
Alone  hath  ever  shorn  away. 


Not  thus,  within  the  woods  which  hide 
The  beauty  of  thy  azure  tide, 

And    with     their    falling    timbers 

block 

Thy  broken  currents,  Kennebec  ! 
Gazes  the  white  man  on  the  wreck 
Of    the    down-trodden    Norridge- 

wock,  — 

In  one  lone  village  hemmed  at  length, 
In  battle  shorn  of  half  their  strength, 
Turned,  like  the  panther  in  his  lair, 
With    his     fast-flowing    life-blood 

wet, 

For  one  last  struggle  of  despair, 
Wounded  and  faint,  but   tameless 

yet! 

Unreaped,  upon  the  planting  lands, 
The  scant,  neglected  harvest  stands : 
No  shout  is  there,  —  no  dance, — 

no  song : 

The  aspect  of  the  very  child 
Scowls  with  a  meaning  sad  and  wild 

Of  bitterness  and  wrong. 
The  almost  infant  Norridgevvock 
Essays  to  lift  the  tomahawk ; 
And  plucks  his  father's  knife  away, 
To  mimic,  in  his  frightful  play, 

The  scalping  of  an  English  foe  : 
Wreathes  on  his  lip  a  horrid  smile, 
Burns,  like  a  snake's,  his  small  eye, 

while 
Some  bough  or  sapling  meets  his 

blow. 

The  fisher,  as  he  drops  his  line, 
Starts,  when  he  sees  the  hazels  quiver 
Along  the  margin  of  the  river, 
Looks  up  and  down  the  rippling  tide, 
And  grasps  the  firelock  at  his  side. 
For  Bomazeen  from  Tacconock 
Has   sent   his   runners  to  Norridge- 

wock, 

With  tidings  that  Moulton  and  Har- 
mon of  York 

Far  up  the  river  have  come  : 
They   have   left    their   boats,  —  they 

have  entered  the  wood, 
And    filled   the  depths   of  the   soli- 
tude 

With    the   sound   of    the   ranger's 
drum. 


MOGG   MEGONE. 


On  the  brow  of  a  hill,  which  slopes  to 
meet 

The    flowing    river,    and    bathe    its 
feet,— 

The  bare-washed  rock,  and  the  droop- 
ing grass,  _ 

And  the  creeping  vine,  as  the  waters 
pass,  — 

A  rude  and  unshapely  chapel  stands, 

Built   up   in   that   wild  by  unskilled 
hands ; 

Yet  the  traveller  knows  it  a  place  of 
prayer, 

For   the   holy   sign   of  the   cross    is 
there  : 

And  should  he  chance  at  that  place 

to  be, 

Of  a  Sabbath  morn,  or  some  hal- 
lowed day, 

When  prayers  are  made  and  masses 
are  said, 

Some  for  the  living  and  some  for  the 
dead, 

Well  might  that  traveller  start  'to  see 
The  tall  dark  forms,  that  take  their 
way 

From  the  birch  canoe,  on  the  river- 
shore, 

And  the  forest  paths,  to  that  chapel 
door; 

And  marvel  to  mark  the  naked  knees 
And  the  dusky  foreheads  bending 
there, 

While,  in  coarse  white  vesture,  over 

these 
In  blessing  or  in  prayer, 

Stretching     abroad     his     thin     pale 
hands. 

Like   a  shrouded  ghost,   the    Jesuit 
stands. 

Two   forms  are  now  in   that   chapel 

dim, 

The  Jesuit,  silent  and  sad  and  pale, 
Anxiously    heeding    some     fearful 

tale, 

Which  a  stranger  is  telling  him. 
That   stranger's  garb    is    soiled   and 

torn, 
And  wet  with  dew  and  loosely  worn  ; 


Her  fair  neglected  hair  falls  down 
O'er  cheeks  with  wind  and  sunshine 

brown  ; 

Yet  still,  in  that  disordered  face, 
The  Jesuit's  cautious  eye  can  trace 
Those  elements  of  former  grace 
Which,    half   effaced,    seem    scarcely 

less, 
Even  now,  than  perfect  loveliness. 

With    drooping   head,  and  voice   so 

low, 
That  scarce   it  meets  "the  Jesuit's 

ears,  — 
While   through    her   clasped   fingers 

flow, 
From  the  heart's  fountain,  hot  and 

slow, 

Her  penitential  tears,  — 
She  tells  the  story  of  the  woe 
And  evil  of  her  years. 

"  O  father,  bear  with  me  ;  my  heart 
Is    sick    and    death-like,    and    my 

brain 

Seems  girdled  with  a  fiery  chain, 
Whose    scorching    links   will    never 

part, 

And  never  cool  again. 
Bear  with  me  while   I   speak,  —  but 

turn 

Away  that  gentle  eye.  the  while,  — 
The  fires  of  guilt  more  fiercely  burn 

Beneath  its  holy  smile  ; 
For  half  I  fancy  I  can  see 
My  mother's  sainted  look  in  thee. 

"  My    dear    lost    mother  !    sad    and 
pale, 

Mournfully  sinking  day  by  day, 
And  with  a  hold  on  life  as  frail 

As    frosted   leaves,  that,  thin    and 


Hang  feebly  on  their  parent  spray, 
And  tremble  in  the  gale  ; 
Yet  watching  o'er  my  childishness 
With  patient  fondness,  —  not  the  less 
For  all  the  agony  which  kept 
Her  blue  eye  wakeful,  while  I  slept  ; 
And  checking  every  tear  and  groan 


MOGG   MEGONE. 


That    haply  might    have  waked   my 

own, 

And  bearing  still,  without  offence, 
My  idle  words,  and  petulance  ; 

Reproving     with     a     tear,  —  and, 

while 

The  tooth  of  pain  was  keenly  preying 
Upon  her  very  heart,  repaying 
My  brief  repentance  with  a  smile. 

"  O,  in  her  meek,  forgiving  eye 

There   was    a    brightness    not    of 

mirth, 
A  light  whose  clear  intensity 

Was  borrowed  not  of  earth. 
Along  her  cheek  a  deepening  red 
Told  where  the  feverish  hectic  fed ; 

And  yet,  each  fatal  token  gave 
To  the  mild  beauty  of  her  face 
A  newer  and  a  dearer  grace, 

Unwarning  of  the  grave. 
'Twas   like   the   hue  which  Autumn 

gives 
To  yonder  changed  and  dying  leaves, 

Breathed  over  by  his  frosty  breath  ; 
Scarce  can  the  gazer  feel  that  this 
Is  but  the  spoiler's  treacherous  kiss, 

The  mocking  smile  of  Death  ! 

"  Sweet  were   the  tales  she  used  to 
tell 

When  summer's  eve  was  dear  to  us, 
And,  fading  from  the  darkening  dell, 
The  glory  of  the  sunset  fell 

On  wooded  Agamenticus,  — 
When,  sitting  by  our  cottage  wall, 
The  murmur  of  the  Saco's  fall, 

And  the  south-wind's  expiring  sighs 
Came,  softly  blending,  on  my  ear, 
With  the  low  tones  I  loved  to  hear : 

Tales  of  the  pure,  —  the  good,  — 

the  wise,  — 

The  holy  men  and  maids  of  old, 
In  the  all-sacred  pages  told  ;  — 
Of  Rachel,  stooped  at  Haran's  foun- 
tains, 

Amid  her  father's  thirsty  flock, 
Beautiful  to  her  kinsman  seeming 
As  the  bright  angels  of  his  dreaming, 

On  Padan-aran's  holy  rock  ; 


Of  gentle  Ruth,  —  and  her  who  kept 

Her  awful  vigil  on  the  mountains, 
By  Israel's  virgin  daughters  wept ; 
Of  Miriam,  with  her  maidens,  singing 

The  song  for  grateful  Israel  meet, 
While  every  crimson  wave  was  bring- 
ing 

The  spoils  of  Egypt  at  her  feet ; 
Of  her,  —  Samaria's  humble  daughter, 

Who   paused   to  hear,  beside   her 
well, 

Lessons  of  love  and   truth,  which 

fell 
Softly  as  Shiloh's  flowing  water  ; 

And  saw,  beneath  his  pilgrim  guise, 
The  Promised  One,  so  long  foretold 
By  holy  seer  and  bard  of  old, 
Revealed  before  her  wondering  eyes ! 

"  Slowly  she  faded.     Day  by  day 
Her  step  grew  weaker  in  our  hall, 
And  fainter,  at  each  even-fall, 

Her  sad  voice  died  away. 
Yet  on  her  thin,  pale  lip,  the  while, 
Sat  Resignation's  holy  smile  : 
And    even    my    father    checked    his 

tread, 
And   hushed   his   voice,   beside    her 

bed: 

Beneath  the  calm  and  sad  rebuke 
Of  her  meek  eye's  imploring  look, 
The  scowl  of  hate  his  brow  forsook, 

And  in  his  stern  and  gloomy  eye, 
At  times,  a  few  unwonted  tears 
Wet  the  dark  lashes,  which  for  years 

Hatred  and  pride  had  kept  so  dry. 

"  Calm  as  a  child  to  slumber  soothed, 
As  if  an  angel's  hand  had  smoothed 
The  still,  white  features  into  rest, 
Silent  and  cold,  without  a  breath 

To  stir  the  drapery  on  her  breast, 
Pain,   with   its   keen    and    poisoned 

fang, 

The  horror  of  the  mortal  pang, 
The   suffering   look     her    brow    had 

worn, 
The    fear,    the   strife,    the    anguish 

gone,  — 
She  slept  at  last  in  death ! 


MOGG   MEGONE. 


"  O,  tell  me,  father,  can  the  dead 
Walk  on  the  earth,  and  look  on  us, 

And  lay  upon  the  living's  head 
Their  blessing  or  their  curse  ? 

For,  O,  last  night  she  stood  by  me, 

As    I     lay    beneath     the    woodland 
tree ! " 

The  Jesuit  crosses  himself  in  awe,  — 
"Jesu!    what   was    it    my    daughter 
saw?" 

"  She  came  to  me  last  night. 

The  dried  leaves  did  not  feel  her 

tread ; 

She  stood  by  me  in  the  wan  moon- 
light, 

In  the  white  robes  of  the  dead! 
Pale,  and  very  mournfully 
She  bent  her  light  form  over  me. 
I  heard  no  sound,  I  felt  no  breath 
Breathe  o'er   me  from   that   face  of 

death : 

Its  blue  eyes  rested  on  my  own, 
Rayless  and  cold  as  eyes  of  stone  ; 
Yet,  in  their  fixed,  unchanging  gaze, 
Something,    which    spoke    of   early 

days,  — 

A  sadness  in  their  quiet  glare, 
As  if  love's  smile  were  frozen  there,  — 
Came  o'er  me  with  an  icy  thrill ; 
O  God!  I  feel  its  presence  still!" 

The  Jesuit  makes  the  holy  sign, — 
"  How  passed  the   vision,    daughter 
mine?" 

"  All  dimly  in  the  wan  moonshine, 
As   a  wreath  of  mist  will  twist  and 

twine, 

And  scatter,  and  melt  into  the  light,  — 
So  scattering,  —  melting  on  my  sight, 

The  pale,  cold  vision  passed ; 
But  those  sad    eyes   were  fixed    on 

mine 
Mournfully  to  the  last." 

"God  help   thee,   daughter,   tell  me 

why 
That  spirit  passed  before  thine  eye!" 


"  Father,  I  know  not,  save  it  be 
That  deeds  of  mine  have  summoned 

her 

From  the  unbreathing  sepulchre, 
To  leave  her  last  rebuke  with  me. 
Ah,  woe  for  me!  my  mother  died 
Just  at  the  moment  when  I  stood 
Close  on  the  verge  of  womanhood, 
A  child  in  everything  beside  ; 
And   when    my   wild     heart    needed 

most 
Her  gentle  counsels,  they  were  lost. 

"  My  father  lived  a  stormy  life, 

Of  frequent  change  and  daily  strife ; 

And,  —  God   forgive    him !    left    his 

child 

To  feel,  like  him,  a  freedom  wild ; 
To  love  the  red  man's  dwelling-place, 

The    birch    boat    on    his    shaded 

floods, 
The  wild  excitement  of  the  chase 

Sweeping  the  ancient  woods, 
The  camp-fire,  blazing  on  the  shore 

Of  the  still  lakes,  the  clear  stream, 
where 

The  idle  fisher  sets  his  wear, 
Or  angles  in  the  shade,  far  more 

Than  that  restraining  awe  I  felt 
Beneath  my  gentle  mother's  care, 

When  nightly  at  her  knee  I  knelt, 
With  childhood's  simple  prayer. 

"  There   came  a  change.     The  wild, 

glad  mood 

Of  unchecked  freedom  passed. 
Amid  the  ancient  solitude 
Of  unshorn  grass  and  waving   wood, 
And   waters   glancing    bright   and 

fast, 

A  softened  voice  was  in  my  ear, 
Sweet  as   those   lulling   sounds  and 

fine 

The  hunter  lifts  his  head  to  hear, 
Now    far   and   faint,    now    full    and 

near  — 
The   murmur   of  the     wind-swept 

pine. 

A  manly  form  was  ever  nigh, 
A  bold,  free  hunter,  with  an  eye 


H 


MOGG   MEGONE. 


Whose    dark,    keen     glance    had 

power  to  wake 
Both    fear    and    love,  —  to    awe   and 

charm  ; 

'T  was  as   the   wizard   rattlesnake, 
Whose  evil  glances  lure  to  harm  — • 
Whose  cold  and  small  and  glittering 

eye, 

And  brilliant  coil,  and  changing  dye, 
Draw,  step  by  step,  the  gazer  near, 
With  drooping  wing  and  cry  of  fear, 
Yet  powerless  all  to  turn  away, 
A  conscious,  but  a  willing  prey ! 

"  Fear,    doubt,    thought,    life    itself, 

erelong 
Merged    in    one    feeling    deep    and 

strong. 

Faded  the  world  which  I  had  known, 
A   poor    vain   shadow,    cold    and 

waste ; 
In  the  warm  present  bliss  alone 

Seemed  I  of  actual  life  to  taste. 
Fond  longings  dimly  understood, 
The  glow  of  passion's  quickening 

blood, 

And  cherished  fantasies  which  press 
The  young   lip   with  a   dream's   ca- 
ress, — 

The  heart's  forecast  and  prophecy 
Took  form  and  life  before  my  eye, 
Seen  in  the  glance  which  met  my 

own, 

Heard  in  the  soft  and  pleading  tone, 
Felt  in  the  arms  around  me  cast, 
And  warm  heart-pulses  beating  fast. 
Ah !  scarcely  yet  to  God  above 
With  deeper  trust,  with  stronger  love 
Has   prayerful   saint  his  meek  heart 

lent, 

Or  cloistered  nun  at  twilight  bent, 
Than  I,  before  a  human  shrine, 
As  mortal  and  as  frail  as  mine, 
With  heart,  and  soul,  and  mind,  and 

form, 
Knelt  madly  to  a  fellow-worm. 

"  Full  soon,  upon  that  dream  of  sin. 
An  awful  light  came  bursting  in. 


The  shrine  was  cold,  at  which  I  knelt, 

The  idol  of  that  shrine  was  gone ; 
A  humbled  thing  of  shame  and  guilt, 

Outcast,  and  spurned  and  lone, 
Wrapt  in  the  shadows  of  my  crime, 

With  withering  heart  and  burning 
brain, 

And  tears  that  fell  like  fiery  rain, 
I  passed  a  fearful  time. 


soul  it  wrought   a 


"There   came   a   voice  —  it   checked 
the  tear  — 

In    heart   and 

change ; — 
My  father's  voice  was  in  my  ear ; 

It  whispered  of  revenge! 
A  new  and  fiercer  feeling  swept 

All  lingering  tenderness  away  ; 
And  tiger  passions,  which  had  slept 

In  childhood's  better  day, 
Unknown,  unfelt,  arose  at  length 
In  all  their  own  demoniac  strength. 

"  A  youthful  warrior  of  the  wild, 
By   words   deceived,    by   smiles    be- 
guiled, 

Of  crime  the  cheated  instrument, 
Upon  our  fatal  errands  went. 

Through     camp    and     town     and 

wilderness 

He  tracked  his  victim  ;  and,  at  last, 
Just   when    the    tide    of    hate    had 

passed, 
And  milder  thoughts  came  warm  and 

fast, 

Exulting,  at  my  feet  he  cast 
The  bloody  token  of  success. 

"  O  God !  with  what  an  awful  power 

I  saw  the  buried  past  uprise, 
And  gather,  in  a  single  hour, 

Its  ghost-like  memories! 
And  then  I  felt  —  alas  !  too  late  — 
That  underneath  the  mask  of  hate, 
That  shame  and  guilt  and  wrong  had 

thrown 
O'er  feelings  which  they  might   not 

own, 

The  heart's  wild  love  had  known 
no  change ; 


MOGG   MEGONE. 


And  still,  that  deep  and  hidden  love, 
With  its    first  fondness,  wept  above 

The  victim  of  its  own  revenge ! 
There  lay  the  fearful  scalp,  and  there 
The   blood   was   on   its  pale  brown 

hair ! 

I  thought  not  of  the  victim's  scorn, 
I  thought  not  of  his  baleful  guile, 
My  deadly  wrong,  my  outcast  name, 
The  characters  of  sin  and  shame 
On  heart  and  forehead  drawn ; 

I  only  saw  that  victim1s  smile,  — 
The    still,    green  places   where    we 

met,  — 

The  moonlit  branches,  dewy  wet ; 
I  only  felt,  I  only  heard 
The  greeting  and  the  parting  word,  — 
The  smile,  — the  embrace,  —  the  tone, 

which  made 
An  Eden  of  the  forest  shade. 

"  And  oh,  with  what  a  loathing  eye, 
With    what    a  deadly    hate,   and 

deep, 
I  saw  that  Indian  murderer  lie 

Before  me,  in  his  drunken  sleep! 
What  though   for  me  the  deed  was 

done, 

And  words  of  mine  had  sped  him  on  ! 
Yet  when  he  murmured,  as  he  slept, 
The  horrors  of  that  deed  of  blood, 
The  tide  of  utter  madness  swept 

O'er  brain  and  bosom,  like  a  flood. 
And,  father,  with  this  hand  of  mine — 
"  Ha!  what  didst  thou?  "  the  Jesuit 

cries, 
Shuddering,  as  smitten  with  sudden 

pain, 
And  shading,  with  one  thin  hand, 

his  eyes, 
With  the  other  he  makes  the    holy 

sign. 

"  —  I  smote  him  as  I  would  a  worm ;  — 
With  heart  as  steeled,  with  nerves  as 

firm : 
He  never  woke  again !  " 

"•  Woman  of  sin  and  blood  and  shame, 
Speak,  —  I  would  know  that  victim's 
name.1' 


•'Father,"  she  gasped,  "a  chieftain, 
known 

As  Saco's  Sachem,  —  MOGG  ME- 
GONE ! " 

Pale  priest!     What  proud  and  lofty 

dreams, 
What   keen   desires,  what   cherished 

schemes, 

What  hopes,  that  time  may  not  recall, 
Are  darkened  by  that  chieftain's  fall ! 
Was  he  not  pledged,  by  cross  and  vow, 

To  lift  the  hatchet  of  his  sire, 
And,  round  his  own,  the  Church's  foe, 

To  light  the  avenging  fire  ? 
Who  now  the  Tarrantine  shall  wake, 
For  thine  and  for  the  Church's  sake  ? 

Who  summon  to  the  scene 
Of  conquest  and  unsparing  strife, 
And  vengeance  dearer  than  his  life, 

The  fiery-souled  Castine  ? 
Three    backward    steps    the     Jesuit 

takes,  — 
His  long,  thin  frame  as  ague  shakes ; 

And  loathing  hate  is  in  his  eye, 
As  from  his  lips  these  words  of  fear 
Fall  hoarsely  on  the  maiden's  ear, — 

"  The  soul  that  sinneth  shall  surely 
die ! " 

She  stands,  as   stands   the   stricken 

deer, 

Checked  midway  in  the  fearful  chase, 
When  bursts,  upon  his  eye  and  ear, 
The  gaunt,  gray  robber,  baying  near, 
Between  him  and  his  hiding-place ; 
While  still  behind,  with  yell  and  blow, 
Sweeps,  like  a  storm,  the  coming  foe. 
"  Save  me,  O  holy  man  !  "  —  her  cry 
Fills  all  the  void,  as  if  a  tongue, 
Unseen,  from  rib  and  rafter  hung, 
Thrilling  with  mortal  agony  ; 
Her  hands  are  clasping  the   Jesuit's 

knee, 
And  her  eye  looks  fearfully  into  his 

own ;  — 
"  Ofif,  woman  of  sin  !  —  nay,  touch  not 

me 

With  those  fingers  of  blood  ;  —  be- 
gone ! " 


i6 


MOGG   MEGONE. 


With  a  gesture  of  horror,  he  spurns 

the  form 
That  writhes  at  his  feet  like  a  trodden 

worm. 

Ever  thus  the  spirit  must, 

Guilty  in  the  sight  of  Heaven, 
With  a  keener  woe  be  riven, 

For  its  weak  and  sinful  trust 

In  the  strength  of  human  dust ; 
And  its  anguish  thrill  afresh, 

For  each  vain  reliance  given 
To  the  failing  arm  of  flesh. 


PART   III. 

AH,  weary  Priest !  —  with  pale  hands 
pressed 

On  thy  throbbing  brow  of  pain, 
Baffled  in  thy  life-long  quest, 

Overworn  with  toiling  vain, 
How  ill  thy  troubled  musings  fit 

The  holy  quiet  of  a  breast 

With  the  Dove  of  Peace  at  rest, 
Sweetly  brooding  over  it. 
Thoughts  are  thine  which  have  no  part 
With  the  meek  and  pure  of  heart, 
Undisturbed  by  outward  things, 
Resting  in  the  heavenly  shade, 
By  the  overspreading  wings 

Of  the  Blessed  Spirit  made. 
Thoughts  of  strife  and  hate  and  wrong 
Sweep  thy  heated  brain  along,  — 
Fa'ding  hopes,  for  whose  success 

It  were  sin  to  breathe  a  prayer  ;  — 
Schemes  which   Heaven   may  never 
bless,  — 

Fears  which  darken  to  despair. 
Hoary  priest !  thy  dream  is  done 
Of  a  hundred  red  tribes  won 

To  the  pale  of  Holy  Church  ; 
And  the  heretic  o'erthrown, 
And  his  na"me  no  longer  known, 
And  thy  weary  brethren  turning, 
Joyful  from  their  years  of  mourning, 
'Twixt  the  altar  and  the  porch. 
Hark  !  what  sudden  sound  is  heard 

In  the  wood  and  in  the  sky, 
Shriller  than  the  scream  of  bird,  — 


Than  the  trumpet's  clang  more  high ! 
Every  wolf-cave  of  the  hills, — 
Forest  arch  and  mountain  gorge, 
Rock  and  dell,  and  river  verge,  — 
With  an  answering  echo  thrills. 
Well  does  the  Jesuit  know  that  cry, 
Which  summons  the  Norridgewock  to 

die. 
And  tells  that  the  foe  of  his  flock  is 

nigh. 

He  listens,  and  hears  the  rangers  come, 
With  loud  hurrah,  and  jar  of  drum, 
And  hurrying  feet  (for  the  chase  is 

hot), 
And  the  short,  sharp  sound  of  rifle 

shot, 
And   taunt  and  menace,  —  answered 

well 
By   the   Indians'    mocking    cry  and 

yell,  — 
The  bark  of  dogs,  —  the  squaw's  mad 

scream,  — 
The    dash    of    paddles     along     the 

stream,  — 

The  whistle  of  shot  as  it  cuts  the  leaves 
Of  the  maples  around   the   church's 

eaves,  — 
And   the  gride   of  hatchets,  fiercely 

thrown, 

On  wigwam-log  and  tree  and  stone. 
Black  with  the  grime  of  paint  and  dust, 
Spotted  and  streaked  with  human 

gore, 
A  grim  and  naked  head  is  thrust 

Within  the  chapel-door. 
"  Ha  —  Bomazeen  !  —  In  God's  name 

say, 
What  mean  these  sounds  of  bloody 

fray?" 
Silent,  the  Indian  points  his  hand 

To  where  across  the  echoing  glen 
Sweep  Harmon's  dreaded  ranger-band, 

And  Moulton  with  his  men. 
"  Where  are  thy  warriors,  Bomazeen  ? 
WThere  are  De  Rouville  and  Castine, 
And   where   the    braves    of    Sawga's 

queen  ?  " 

"  Let  my  father  find  the  winter  snow 
Which  the  sun  drank  up  long  moons 

ago! 


MOGG   MEGONE. 


Under  the  falls  of  Tacconock, 

The  wolves  are  eating  the  Norridge- 

wock; 
Castine   with   his   wives   lies  closely 

hid 

Like  a  fox  in  the  woods  of  Pemaquid! 
On  Sawga's  banks  the  man  of  war 
Sits  in  his  wigwam  like  a  squaw, — 
Squando  has  fled,  and  Mogg  Megone, 
Struck  by  the  knife  of  Sagamore  John, 
Lies  stiffand  stark  and  cold  as  a  stone." 

Fearfully  over  the  Jesuit's  face, 

Of  a  thousand  thoughts,  trace  after 

trace, 
Like  swift  cloud-shadows,  each  other 

chase. 

One  instant,  his  fingers  grasp  his  knife, 
For  a  last  vain  struggle  for  cherished 

life,  — 

The  next,  he  hurls  the  blade  away, 
And  kneels  at  his  altar's  foot  to  pray  ; 
Over  his  beads  his  fingers  stray, 
And  he  kisses  the  cross,  and  calls  aloud 
On  the  Virgin  and  her  Son ; 
For  terrible    thoughts    his    memory 

crowd 

Of  evil  seen  and  done,  — 
Of  scalps  brought  home  by  his  savage 

flock 
From  Casco  and  Sawga  and  Sagada- 

hock, 
In  the  Church's  service  won. 

No  shrift  the  gloomy  savage  brooks, 
As  scowling  on  the  priest  he  looks  : 
' '  Cowesass  —  co  wesass  —  ta  which  wes- 

saseen  ? 

Let  my  father  look  upon  Bomazeen,  — 
My  father's  heart  is  the  heart  of  a 

squaw, 
But  mine  is  so  hard  that  it  does  not 

thaw : 

Let  my  father  ask  his  God  to  make 
A  dance  and  a  feast  for  a  great  saga- 
more, 
When  he  paddles  across  the  western 

lake, 

With  his  dogs  and  his  squaws  to  the 
spirit's  shore. 


Cowesass  —  cowesass  —  tawhich  wes- 

saseen  ? 
Let  my  father  die  like  Bomazeen ! " 

Through  the  chapel's  narrow  doors, 

And  through  each  window  in  the 

walls, 
Round  the  priest  and  warrior  pours 

The    deadly    shower    of    English 

balls. 

Low  on  his  cross  the  Jesuit  falls ; 
While  at  his  side  the  Norridgewock, 
With  failing  breath,  essays  to  mock 
And  menace  yet  the  hated  foe, — 
Shakes  his  scalp-trophies  to  and  fro 

Exultingly  before  their  eyes,  — 
Till,  cleft  and  torn  by  shot  and  blow, 

Defiant  still,  he  dies. 

"So  fare  all  eaters  of  the  frog  ! 
Death  to  the  Babylonish  dog! 

Down  with  the  beast  of  Rome!" 
With  shouts  like  these,  around  the 

dead, 

Unconscious  on  his  bloody  bed, 
The  rangers  crowding  come. 
Brave  men!  the  dead  priest  cannot 

hear 
The    unfeeling    taunt,  —  the    brutal 

jeer ; — 
Spurn  —  for    he    sees    ye    not  —  in 

wrath, 

The  symbol  of  your  Saviour's  death  ; 
Tear  from  his  death -grasp,  in  your 

zeal, 

And  trample,  as  a  thing  accursed, 
The  cross  he  cherished  in  the  dust : 
The  dead  man  cannot  feel! 

Brutal  alike  in  deed  and  word, 
With   callous    heart  and   hand    oi 

strife, 

How  like  a  fiend  may  man  be  made, 
Plying  the  foul  and  monstrous  trade 
Whose  harvest-field  is  human  life, 
Whose  sickle  is  the  reeking  sword! 
Ouenching,    with    reckless    hand    in 

blood. 

Sparks    kindled    by    the    breath    of 
God; 


1 8 


MOGG    MEGONE. 


Urging  the  deathless  soul,  unshriven, 

Of  open  guilt  or  secret  sin, 
Before  the  bar  of  that  pure  Heaven 

The  holy  only  enter  in! 
O,  by  the  widow's  sore  distress, 
The  orphan's  wailing  wretchedness, 
By  Virtue  struggling  in  the  accursed 
Embraces  of  polluting  Lust, 
By  the  fell  discord  of  the  Pit, 
And  the  pained  souls  that  people  it, 
And  by  the  blessed  peace  which  fills 

The  Paradise  of  God  forever, 
Resting  on  all  its  holy  hills, 

And     flowing     with     its     crystal 

river,  — 

Let  Christian  hands  no  longer  bear 
In  triumph  on  his  crimson  car 
The  foul  and  idol  god  of  war ; 
No  more  the  purple  wreaths  prepare 
To  bind  amid  his  snaky  hair ; 
Nor  Christian  bards  his  glories  tell, 
Nor  Christian    tongues    his    praises 
swell. 

Through   the    gun-smoke   wreathing 
white, 

Glimpses  on  the  soldiers1  sight 

A  thing  of  human  shape  I  ween, 

For  a  moment  only  seen, 

With  its  loose  hair  backward  stream- 
ing* 

And  its  eyeballs  madly  gleaming, 

Shrieking,  like  a  soul  in  pain, 

From     the    world     of    light    and 
breath, 

Hurrying  to  its  place  again, 
Spectre-like  it  vanisheth ! 

Wretched  girl !  one  eye  alone 

Notes  the  way  which  thou  hast  gone. 

That    great    Eye,    which     slumbers 

never, 

Watching  o'er  a  lost  world  ever, 
Tracks  thee  over  vale  and  mountain, 
By  the  gushing  forest-fountain, 
Plucking  from  the  vine  its  fruit, 
Searching  for  the  ground-nut's  root, 
Peering  in  the  she-wolfs  den, 
Wading  through  the  marshy  fen, 
Where  the  sluggish  water-snake 


Basks  beside  the  sunny  brake, 

Coiling  in  his  slimy  bed, 

Smooth  and  cold  against  thy  tread, — 

Purposeless,  thy  mazy  way 

Threading     through     the     lingering 
day. 

And  at  night  securely  sleeping 

Where  the  dogwood's  dews  are  weep- 
ing ! 

Still,  though  earth  and  man  discard 
thee, 

Doth    thy    Heavenly    Father    guard 
thee : 

He  who  spared  the  guilty  Cain, 
Even  when  a  brother's  blood, 
Crying  in  the  ear  of  God, 

Gave  the  earth  its  primal  stain,  — 

He  whose  mercy  ever  liveth, 

WTho  repenting  guilt  forgiveth, 

And  the  broken  heart  receiveth,  — 

Wanderer  of  the  wilderness, 

Haunted,  guilty,  crazed,  and  wild, 

He  regardeth  thy  distress, 
And  careth  for  his  sinful  child ! 


'T  is  spring-time  on  the  eastern  hills! 
Like  torrents  gush  the  summer  rills  ; 
Through  winter's  moss  and  dry  dead 

leaves 

The  bladed  grass  revives  and  lives, 
Pushes  the  mouldering  waste  away, 
And  glimpses  to  the  April  day. 
In  kindly  shower  and  sunshine  bud 
The  branches  of  the  dull  gray  wood ; 
Out  from   its  sunned  and  sheltered 

nooks 

The  blue  eye  of  the  violet  looks  ; 
The    southwest    wind    is    warmly 

blowing, 

And  odors  from  the  springing  grass, 
The  pine-tree  and  the  sassafras, 
Are  with  it  on  its  errands  going. 

A    band    is    marching    through  the 

wood 
Where     rolls     the     Kennebec     his 

flood,  — 

The  warriors  of  the  wilderness, 
Painted,  and  in  their  battle  dress ; 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


And  with  them  one  whose  bearded 

cheek. 

And  white  and   wrinkled  brow,  be- 
speak 
A  wanderer    from   the   shores   of 

France. 

A  few  long  locks  of  scattering  snow 
Beneath  a  battered  morion  flow, 
And  from  the  rivets  of  the  vest 
Which     girds     in    steel    his    ample 

breast, 

The  slanted  sunbeams  glance. 
In  the  harsh  outlines  of  his  face 
Passion  and  sin  have  left  their  trace  ; 
Yet,  save  worn  brow  and  thin  gray 

hair, 
No  signs  of  weary  age  are  there. 

His  step  is  firm,  his  eye  is  keen. 
Nor  years  in  broil  and  battle  spent. 
Nor  toil,  nor  wounds,  nor  pain  have 

bent 
The  lordly  frame  of  old  Castine. 

No  purpose  now  of  strife  and  blood 

Urges  the  hoary  veteran  on  : 
The  fire  of  conquest,  and  the  mood 

Of  chivalry  have  gone. 
A  mournful  task  is  his,  —  to  lay 
Within    the    earth    the    bones    of 

those 

Who  perished  in  that  fearful  day, 
When     Norridgewock     became     the 

prey 

Of  all  unsparing  foes. 
Sadly   and   still,    dark   thoughts   be- 
tween, 

Of    coming   vengeance    mused    Cas- 
tine, 

Of  the  fallen  chieftain  Bomazeen, 
Who    bade    for    him    the    Norridge- 

wocks. 
Dig  up  their  buried  tomahawks 

For  firm  defence  or  swift  attack  ; 
And   him    whose    friendship    formed 

the  tie 
Which    held    the    stern    self-exile 

back 

From  lapsing  into  savagery  ; 
Whose   garb   and   tone  and    kindly 
glance 


Recalled  a  younger,  happier  day, 
And     prompted     memory's     fond 

essay, 
To  bridge  the  mighty  waste  which 

lay 
Between  his  wild  home  and   that 

gray, 

Tall  chateau  of  his  native  France, 
Whose    chapel    bell,   with    far-heard 

din 

Ushered  his  birth-hour  gayly  in, 
And  counted  with  its  solemn  toll 
The  masses  for  his  father's  soul. 

Hark!     from    the    foremost    of    the 

band 

Suddenly  bursts  the  Indian  yell ; 
For  now  on  the  very  spot  they  stand 
Where  the  Norridgewocks  fighting 

fell. 

No  wigwam  smoke  is  curling  there; 
The    very    earth    is     scorched     and 

bare: 
And  they  pause  and  listen  to  catch  a 

sound 
Of     breathing     life,  —  but     there 

comes  not  one, 
Save  the  fox's  bark  and  the  rabbit's 

bound ; 
But  here  and  there,  on  the  blackened 

ground, 
White  bones  are  glistening  in  the 

sun. 
And    where    the     house    of  •  prayer 

arose, 
And   the   holy   hymn,   at    daylight's 

close, 
And   the  aged   priest    stood    up    to 

bless 

The  children  of  the  wilderness, 
There  is  naught  save  ashes  sodden 

and  dank ; 

And  the  birchen  boats  of  the  Nor- 
ridgewock, 
Tethered    to  tree    and  stump  and 

rock, 
Rotting  along  the  river  bank! 

Blessed  Mary!  who  is  she 
Leaning  against  that  maple-tree? 


20 


THE  BRIDAL  OF   PENNACOOK. 


The  sun  upon  her  face  burns  hot, 
But  the  fixed  eyelid  moveth  not ; 
The  squirrel's  chirp  is  shrill  and 

clear 

From  the  dry  bough  above  her  ear ; 
Dashing    from    rock    and    root    its 

spray, 

Close  at  her  feet  the  river  rushes ; 
The  blackbird's  wing  against  her 

brushes, 

And    sweetly   through    the    hazel- 
bushes 

The  robin's  mellow  music  gushes  ; — 
God  save  her!  will  she  sleep  alway? 


Castine    hath    bent    him     over    the 

sleeper : 
"  Wake,  daughter,  —  wake !  " —  but 

she  stirs  no  limb  : 
The  eye  that  looks  on  him  is  fixed 

and  dim ; 
And  the  sleep  she  is  sleeping  shall  be 

no  deeper, 

Until  the  angel's  oath  is  said, 
And  the  final  blast  of  the  trump  goes 

forth 

To   the  graves   of  the   sea  and  the 
graves  of  earth . 

RUTH  BONYTHON  IS  DEAD ! 


THE    BRIDAL   OF   PENNACOOK,    1848. 


WE  had  been  wandering  for  many  days 
Through  the  rough  northern  country. 

We  had  seen 
The  sunset,    with   its  bars  of  purple 

cloud, 
Like  a  new  heaven,  shine  upward  from 

the  lake 

Of  Winnepiseogee  ;  and  had  felt 
The  sunrise  breezes,  midst  the  leafy 

isles 
Which  stoop  their  summer  beauty  to 

the  lips 
Of  the  bright  waters.  We  had  checked 

our  steeds, 

Silent  with  wonder,  where  the  moun- 
tain wall 
Is  piled  to  heaven ;  and,  through  the 

narrow  rift 
Of   the    vast   rocks,    against    whose 

rugged  feet 
Beats  the  mad  torrent  with  perpetual 

roar, 
Where  noonday  is  as  twilight,  and  the 

wind 
Comes  burdened  with  the  everlasting 

moan 

Of  forests  and  of  far-off  waterfalls, 
We   had   looked   upward  where  the 

summer  sky, 


Tasselled  with  clouds  light-woven  by 
the  sun, 

Sprung  its  blue  arch  above  the  abut- 
ting crags 

O'er-roofing  the  vast  portal  of  the 
land 

Beyond  the  wall  of  mountains.  We 
had  passed 

The  high  source  of  the  Saco  ;  and  be- 
wildered 

In  the  dwarf  spruce- belts  of  the  Crystal 
Hills, 

Had  heard  above  us,  like  a  voice  in 
the  cloud, 

The  horn  of  Fabyan  sounding;  and 
atop 

Of  old  Agioochook  had  seen  the  moun- 
tains 

Piled  to  the  northward,  shagged  with 
wood,  and  thick 

As  meadow  mole-hills,  —  the  far  sea  of 
Casco, 

A  white  gleam  on  the  horizon  of  the 
east ; 

Fair  lakes,  embosomed  in  the  woods 
and  hills ; 

Moosehillock's  mountain  range,  and 
Kearsarge 

Lifting  his  Titan  forehead  to  the  sun! 


THE   BRIDAL   OF   PENNACOOK. 


21 


And  we  had  rested  underneath   the 

oaks 
Shadowing  the  bank,  whose  grassy 

spires  are  shaken 

By  the  perpetual  beating  of  the  falls 
Of  the  wild  Ammonoosuc.     We  had 

tracked 

The  winding  Pemigewasset,  overhung 
By  beechen  shadows,  whitening  down 

its  rocks, 

Or  lazily  gliding  through  its  intervals, 
From  waving  rye-fields  sending  up 

the  gleam 
Of  sunlit  waters.     We  had  seen  the 

moon 
Rising    behind    Umbagog's    eastern 

pines, 
Like  a  great  Indian  camp-fire ;  and  its 

beams 
At  midnight  spanning  with  a  bridge  of 

silver 
The  Merrimack  by  Uncanoonuc's  falls. 

There  were    five  souls  of  us  whom 

travel's  chance 
Had  thrown   together  in  these  wild 

north  hills  :  — 

A  city  lawyer,  for  a  month  escaping 
From  his  dull  office,  where  the  weary 

eye 
Saw  only  hot  brick  walls  and  close 

thronged  streets,  — 
Briefless  as  yet,  but  with  an  eye  to  see 
Life's  sunniest  side,  and  with  a  heart 

to  take 
Its  chances  all  as  godsends ;  and  his 

brother, 

Pale  from  long  pulpit  studies,  yet  re- 
taining 
The  warmth  and  freshness  of  a  genial 

heart, 

Whose  mirror  of  the  beautiful  and  true, 
In  Man  and  Nature,  was  as  yet  un- 

dimmed 

By  dust  of  theologic  strife,  or  breath 
Of  sect,  or  cobwebs  of  scholastic  lore  ; 
Like  a  clear  crystal  calm  of  water, 

taking 
The   hue   and   image   of  o'erleaning 

flowers, 


Sweet  human  faces,  white  clouds  of 

the  noon, 
Slant  starlight  glimpses  through  the 

dewy  leaves, 
And  tenderest  moonrise.     'T  was,  in 

truth,  a  study, 

To  mark  his  spirit,  alternating  between 
A  decent  and  professional  gravity 
And  an  irreverent  mirthfulness,  which 

often 

Laughed  in  the  face  of  his  divinity, 
Plucked  off  the   sacred  ephod,  quite 

unshrined 

The  oracle,  and  for  the  pattern  priest 
Left  us  the  man.    A  shrewd,  sagacious 

merchant, 
To  whom  the  soiled  sheet  found  in 

Crawford's  inn, 

Giving  the  latest  news  of  city  stocks 
And   sales   of  cotton,  had   a  deeper 

meaning 
Than  the  great  presence  of  the  awful 

mountains 
Glorified   by   the   sunset; — and  his 

daughter 
A  delicate  flower  on  whom  had  blown 

too  long 
Those  evil   winds,    which,   sweeping 

from  the  ice 

And  winnowing  the  fogs  of  Labrador, 
Shed  their  cold  blight  round  Massa- 
chusetts Bay, 
With   the   same   breath   which    stirs 

Spring's  opening  leaves 
And  lifts  her  half-formed  flower-bell 

on  its  stem, 
Poisoning  our  seaside  atmosphere. 

It  chanced 
That  as  we  turned  upon  our  homeward 

way, 
A    drear    northeastern    storm    came 

howling  up 

The  valley  of  the  Saco  ;  and  that  girl 
Who  had  stood  with  us  upon  Mount 

Washington, 
Her  brown  locks  ruffled  by  the  wind 

which  whirled 

In  gusts  around  its  sharp  cold  pin- 
nacle, 


22 


THE  BRIDAL  OF   PENNACOOK. 


Who  had  joined  our  gay  trout-fishing 

in  the  streams 
Which  lave  that  giant's  feet;  whose 

laugh  was  heard 
Like  a  bird's   carol   on   the  sunrise 

breeze 
Which   swelled   our  sail   amidst  the 

lake's  green  islands, 
Shrank  from  its   harsh,  chill  breath, 

and  visibly  drooped 
Like  a  flower  in  the  frost.     So,  in  that 

quiet  inn 
Which    looks   from   Conway   on   the 

mountains  piled 
Heavily  against   the   horizon   of  the 

north, 
Like  summer  thunder-clouds,  we  made 

our  home : 
And  while  the  mist  hung  over  dripping 

hills, 
And  the  cold  wind-driven  rain-drops 

all  day  long 
Beat  their  sad  music  upon  roof  and 

pane, 
We  strove  to  cheer  our  gentle  invalid. 

The  lawyer  in  the  pauses  of  the  storm 

Went  angling  down  the  Saco,  and, 
returning, 

Recounted  his  adventures  and  mis- 
haps ; 

Gave  us  the  history  of  his  scaly  clients, 

Mingling  with  ludicrous  yet  apt  cita- 
tions 

Of  barbarous  law  Latin,  passages 

From  Izaak  Walton's  Angler,  sweet 
and  fresh 

As  the  flower-skirted  streams  of  Staf- 
fordshire, 

Where,  under  aged  trees,  the  south- 
west wind 

Of  soft  June  mornings  fanned  the  thin, 
white  hair 

Of  the  sage  fisher.  And,  if  truth  be 
told, 

Our  youthful  candidate  forsook  his 
sermons, 

His  commentaries,  articles  and  creeds, 

For  the  fair  page  of  human  loveli- 
ness, — - 


The   missal  of  young  hearts,  whose 

sacred  text, 

Is  music,  its  illumining  sweet  smiles. 
He  sang  the  songs  she  loved  ;  and  in 

his  low, 
Deep,  earnest  voice,  recited  many  a 

page 
Of   poetry,  —  the    holiest,    tenderest 

lines 
Of  the  sad  bard  of  Olney,  —  the  sweet 

songs, 
Simple   and   beautiful   as  Truth  and 

Nature, 
Of  him  whose  whitened    locks    on 

Rydal  Mount 
Are  lifted  yet   by   morning    breezes 

blowing 
From  the  green  hills,  immortal  in  his 

lays. 

And  for  myself,  obedient  to  her  wish, 
I    searched   our   landlord's   proffered 

library, — 
A    well-thumbed    Bunyan,    with    its 

nice  wood  pictures 
Of  scaly  fiends  and  angels  not  unlike 

them,  — 

Watts'  unmelodious  psalms,  —  Astrol- 
ogy's 

Last  home,  a  musty  pile  of  almanacs, 
And  an  old  chronicle  of  border  wars 
And  Indian  history.     And,  as  I  read 
A  story  of  the  marriage  of  the  Chief 
Of  Saugus  to  the  dusky  Weetamoo, 
Daughter  of  Passaconaway,  who  dwelt 
In  the  old  time  upon  the  Merrimack, 
Our  fair  one,  in  the  playful  exercise 
Of  her  prerogative,  —  the   right   di- 
vine 
Of    youth    and    beauty,  —  bade    us 

versify 
The   legend,   and   with  ready  pencil 

sketched 

Its  plan  and  outlines,  laughingly  as- 
signing 
To   each   his   part,  and   barring  our 

excuses 
With    absolute   will.      So,   like    the 

cavaliers 
Whose   voices  still  are  heard  in  the 

Romance 


THE   BRIDAL  OF   TENNACOOK. 


Of  silver-tongued  Boccaccio,  on  the 
banks 

Of  Arno,  with  soft  tales  of  love 
beguiling 

The  ear  of  languid  beauty,  plague- 
exiled 

From  stately  Florence,  we  rehearsed 
our  rhymes 

To  their  fair  auditor,  and  shared  by 
turns 

Her  kind  approval  and  her  playful 
censure. 

It  may  be  that  these  fragments  owe 
alone 

To  the  fair  setting  of  their  circum- 
stances, — 

The  associations  of  time,  scene,  and 
audience,  — 

Their  place  amid  the  pictures  which 
fill  up 

The  chambers  of  my  memory.  Yet 
I  trust 

That  some,  who  sigh,  while  wander- 
ing in  thought, 

Pilgrims  of  Romance  o?er  the  olden 
world, 

That  our  broad  land,  —  our  sea-like 
lakes  and  mountains 

Piled  to  the  clouds,  —  our  rivers  over- 
hung 

By  forests  which  have  known  no  other 
change 

For  ages,  than  the  budding  and  the 
fall 

Of  leaves,  —  our  valleys  lovelier  than 
those 

Which  the  old  poets  sang  of,  —  should 
but  figure 

On  the  apocryphal  chart  of  specu- 
lation 

As  pastures,  wood-lots,  mill-sites,  with 
the  privileges, 

Rights,  and  appurtenances,  which 
make  up 

A  Yankee  Paradise,  —  unsung,  un- 
known, 

To  beautiful  tradition ;  even  their 
names, 

Whose  melody  yet  lingers  like  the 
last 


Vibration  of  the  red  man's  requiem, 
Exchanged  for  syllables  significant 
Of  cotton-mill  and  rail-car,  will  look 

kindly 

Upon  this  effort  to  call  up  the  ghost 
Of  our   dim   Past,   and    listen    with 

pleased  ear 
To   the  responses  of  the  questioned 

Shade. 


I.     THE   MERRIMACK. 

O  CHILD  of  that  white-crested  moun- 
tain whose  springs 

Gush  forth  in  the  shade  of  the  cliff- 
eagle^s  wings, 

Down  whose  slopes  to  the  lowlands 
thy  wild  waters  shine, 

Leaping  gray  walls  of  rock,  flashing 
through  the  dwarf  pine. 

From  that  cloud-curtained  cradle  so 

cold  and  so  lone, 
From  the  arms  of  that  wintry-locked 

mother  of  stone, 
By  hills  hung  with   forests,  through 

vales  wide  and  free, 
The  mountain-born  brightness  glanced 

down  to  the  sea ! 


No  bridge  arched  thy  water  save  that 

where  the  trees 
Stretched  their  long  arms  above  thee 

and  kissed  in  the  breeze : 
No  sound  save  the  lapse  of  the  waves 

on  thy  shores, 
The  plunging  of  otters,  the  light  dip 

of  oars. 

Green-tufted,  oak-shaded,  by  Amos- 

keag's  fall 
Thy  twin  Uncanoonucs   rose  stately 

and  tall, 
Thy  Nashua  meadows  lay  green  and 

unshorn, 
And  the  hills  of  Pentucket  were  tas- 

selled  with  corn. 


24 


THE  BRIDAL  OF   PENNACOOK. 


But  thy  Pennacook  valley  was  fairer 
than  these, 

And  greener  its  grasses  and  taller  its 
trees, 

Ere  the  sound  of  an  axe  in  the  forest 
had  rung, 

Or  the  mower  his  scythe  in  the  mead- 
ows had  swung. 

In  their  sheltered  repose  looking  out 
from  the  wood 

The  bark-builded  wigwams  of  Penna- 
cook stood ; 

There  glided  the  corn-dance,  the 
council-fire  shone, 

And  against  the  red  war-post  the 
hatchet  was  thrown. 

There  the  old  smoked  in  silence  their 

pipes,  and  the  young 
To  the  pike  and  the  white-perch  their 

baited  lines  flung ; 
There  the  boy  shaped  his  arrows,  and 

there  the  shy  maid 
Wove  her  many-hued   baskets    and 

bright  wampum  braid. 

O  Stream  of  the  Mountains !  if  answer 

of  thine 
Could  rise  frorn  thy  waters  to  question 

of  mine, 
Methinks  through    the    din    of   thy 

thronged  banks  a  moan 
Of  sorrow  would   swell  for  the  days 

which  have  gone. 

Not  for  thee  the  dull  jar  of  the  loom 

and  the  wheel, 
The  gliding  of  shuttles,  the  ringing  of 

steel ; 
But  that  old  voice  of  waters,  of  bird 

and  of  breeze, 
The  dip  of  the  wild-fowl,  the  rustling 

of  trees ! 


II.     THE   BASHABA. 

LIFT  we  the  twilight  curtains  of  the 

Past, 

And,  turning  from  familiar  sight  and 
sound, 


Sadly  and   full   of  reverence   let  us 

cast 
A  glance  upon  Tradition's  shadowy 

ground, 
Led   by  the  few   pale  lights  which, 

glimmering  round 
That   dim,   strange    land   of    Eld, 

seem  dying  fast ; 
And  that  which  history  gives  not  to 

the  eye, 

The  faded  coloring  of  Time's  tapestry, 
Let   Fancy,   with  her    dream-dipped 

brush  supply. 

Roof  of  bark  and  walls  of  pine, 
Through  whose  chinks  the  sunbeams 

shine, 
Tracing  many  a  golden  line 

On  the  ample  floor  within  ; 
Where  upon  that  earth-floor  stark, 
Lay  the  gaudy  mats  of  bark, 
With  the  bear's  hide,  rough  and  dark, 

And  the  red-deer's  skin. 

Window-tracery,  small  and  slight, 
Woven  of  the  willow  white, 
Lent  a  dimly  checkered  light, 

And     the    night-stars    glimmered 

down, 

Where  the  lodge-fire's  heavy  smoke, 
Slowly  through  an  opening  broke, 
In  the  low  roof,  ribbed  with  oak, 

Sheathed  with  hemlock  brown. 

Gloomed  behind  the  changeless  shade, 
By  the  solemn  pine-wood  made ; 
Through  the  rugged  palisade, 

In  the  open  foreground  planted, 
Glimpses  came  of  rowers  rowing, 
Stir  of  leaves  and  wild-flowers  blow- 
ing, 
Steel-like  gleams  of  water  flowing, 

In  the  sunlight  slanted. 

Here  the  mighty  Bashaba, 

Held  his  long-unquestioned  sway, 

From  the  White  Hills,  far  away, 

To  the  great  sea's  sounding  shore  \ 
Chief  of  chiefs,  his  regal  word 
All  the  river  Sachems  heard, 


THE  BRIDAL   OF   PENNACOOK. 


At  his  call  the  war-dance  stirred, 
Or  was  still  once  more. 

There  his  spoils  of  chase  and  war, 
Jaw  of  wolf  and  black  bear's  paw, 
Panther's  skin  and  eagle's  claw, 

Lay  beside  his  axe  and  bow ; 
And,  adown  the  roof-pole  hung, 
Loosely  on  a  snake-skin  strung, 
In  the  smoke  his  scalp-locks  swung 

Grimly  to  and  fro. 

Nightly  down  the  river  going, 
Swifter  was  the  hunter's  rowing, 
When  he  saw  that  lodge-fire  glowing 

O'er  the  waters  still  and  red ; 
And    the   squaw's   dark   eye  burned 

brighter, 

And  she  drew  her  blanket  tighter, 
As,  with  quicker  step  and  lighter, 

From  that  door  she  fled. 

For  that  chief  had  magic  skill, 
And  a  Panisee's  dark  will, 
Over  powers  of  good  and  ill. 

Powers   which    bless    and  powers 

which  ban,  — 
Wizard  lord  of  Pennacook, 
Chiefs  upon  their  war-path  shook, 
When  they  met  the  steady  look 

Of  that  wise  dark  man. 

Tales  of  him  the  gray  squaw  told, 
When  the  winter  night-wind  cold 
Pierced  her  blanket's  thickest  fold. 

And  the  fire  burned  low  and  small, 
Till  the  very  child  abed, 
Drew  its  bear-skin  over  head, 
Shrinking  from  the  pale  lights  shed 

On  the  trembling  wall. 

All  the  subtle  spirits  hiding 
Under  earth  or  wave,  abiding 
In  the  caverned  rock,  or  riding 

Misty  clouds  or  morning  breeze ; 
Every  dark  intelligence, 
Secret  soul,  and  influence 
Of  all  things  which  outward  sense 

Feels,  or  hears,  or  sees,  — 


These  the  wizard's  skill  confessed, 
At  his  bidding  banned  or  blessed, 
Stormful  woke  or  lulled  to  rest 

Wind  and  cloud,  and  fire  and  flood  ; 
Burned  for  him  the  drifted  snow, 
Bade  through  ice  fresh  lilies  blow, 
And  the  leaves  of  summer  grow 

Over  winter's  wood ! 

Not  untrue  that  tale  of  old ! 
Now,  as  then,  the  wise  and  bold 
All  the  powers  of  Nature  hold 

Subject  to  their  kingly  will ; 
From  the  wandering  crowds  ashore, 
Treading  life's  wild  waters  o'er, 
As  upon  a  marble  floor, 

Moves  the  strong  man  still. 

Still,  to  such,  life's  elements 
With  their  sterner  laws  dispense, 
And  the  chain  of  consequence 

Broken  in  their  pathway  lies  ; 
Time  and  change  their  vassals  mak- 
ing? 

Flowers  from  icy  pillows  waking, 
Tresses  of  the  sunrise  shaking 

Over  midnight  skies. 

Still,  to  earnest  souls,  the  sun 
Rests  on  towered  Gibeon, 
And  the  moon  of  Ajalon 

Lights  the  battle-grounds  of  life  ; 
To  his  aid  the  strong  reverses 
Hidden  powers  and  giant  forces, 
And  the  high  stars,  in  their  courses, 

Mingle  in  his  strife! 


III.      THE   DAUGHTER. 

THE  soot-black  brows  of  men,  —  the 

yell 
Of  women  thronging  round  the 

bed,  — 
The  tinkling   charm  of  ring   and 

shell,— 
The  Powah  whispering  o'er  the 

dead!  — 
All  these  the  Sachem's  home  had 

known, 


26 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


When,  on  her  journey  long  and 

wild 

To  the  dim  World  of  Souls,  alone, 
In  her  young  beauty  passed  the  mother 
of  his  child. 

Three  bow-shots  from  the  Sachem's 

dwelling 

They  laid  her  in  the  walnut  shade, 
Where  a  green  hillock  gently  swell- 
ing 

Her  fitting  mound  of  burial  made. 
There  trailed  the  vine  in   summer 

hours, 
The  tree-perched  squirrel  dropped 

On    velvet    moss    and    pale-hued 

flowers, 

Woven  with  leaf  and  spray,  the  soft- 
ened sunshine  fell ! 

The    Indian's    heart   is   hard  and 

cold,  — 

It  closes  darkly  o'er  its  care, 
And  formed  in   Nature's   sternest 

mould, 

Is  slow  to  feel,  and  strong  to  bear. 

The  war-paint  on  the  Sachem's  face, 

Unwet  with   tears,   shone   fierce 

and  red, 

And,  still  in  battle  or  in  chase, 
Dry  leaf  and  snow-rime  crisped   be- 
neath his  foremost  tread. 

Yet  when  her  name  was  heard  no 

more, 
And  when  the  robe  her  mother 

gave, 

And  small,  light  moccasin  she  wore, 

Had  slowly  wasted  on  her  grave, 

Unmarked  of  him  the  dark  maids 

sped 
Their  sunset  dance  and  moonlit 

play ; 

No  other  shared  his  lonely  bed, 
No  other  fair  young  head  upon   his 
bosom  lay. 

A  lone,  stern  man.     Yet,  as  some- 
times 


The  tempest-smitten  tree  receives 
From  one  small  root  the  sap  which 

climbs 
Its  topmost  spray  and  crowning 

leaves, 

So  from  his  child  the  Sachem  drew 

A  life  of  Love  and  Hope,  and  felt 

His  cold  and  rugged  nature  through 

The  softness  and  the  warmth  of  her 

young  being  melt. 

A  laugh  which  in  the  woodland  rang 
Bemocking      April's      gladdest 

bird,  — 
A  light  and   graceful   form  which 

sprang 
To  meet  him  when  his  step  was 

heard,  — 

Eyes  by  his  lodge-fire  flashing  dark, 
Small  fingers  stringing  bead  and 

shell 
Or   weaving   mats    of    bright-hued 

bark,  — 

With   these  the  household-god  had 
graced  his  wigwam  well. 

Child   of  the  forest! — strong  and 

free, 

Slight-robed,  with   loosely  flow- 
ing hair, 
She  swam  the  lake  or  climbed  the 

tree, 

Or  struck  the  flying  bird  in  air. 
O'er  the  heaped  drifts   of  winter's 

moon 

Her  snow-shoes  tracked  the  hun- 
ter's way ; 

And  dazzling  in  the  summer  noon 
The  blade  of  her  light  oar  threw  off 
its  shower  of  spray! 

Unknown  to  her  the  rigid  rule, 
The   dull   restraint,    the  chiding 

frown, 
The  weary  torture  of  the  school, 

The  taming  of  wild  nature  down. 
Her  only  lore,  the  legends  told 

Around  the  hunter's  fire  at  night ; 
Stars  rose  and   set,   and    seasons 
rolled, 


THE   BRIDAL  OF   PENNACOOK. 


27 


Flowers  bloomed  and  snow-flakes  fell, 
unquestioned  in  her  sight. 

Unknown  to  her  the  subtle  skill 
With   which    the  artist-eye   can 

trace 

In  rock  and  tree  and  lake  and  hill 
The  outlines  of  divinest  grace  ; 
Unknown  the  fine  soul's  keen  unrest, 
Which  sees,  admires,  yet  yearns 

alway ; 

Too  closely  on  her  mother's  breast 
To  note  her  smiles  of  love  the  child 
of  Nature  lay! 

It  is  enough  for  such  to  be 

Of  common,  natural  things  apart, 

To  feel,  with  bird  and  stream  and  tree, 

The  pulses  of  the  same  great  heart ; 

But  we,  from  Nature  long  exiled 

In   our   cold  homes    of  Art  and 

Thought, 
Grieve     like     the     stranger-tended 

child, 

Which   seeks  its  mother's  arms,  and 
sees  but  feels  them  not. 

The  garden  rose  may  richly  bloom 

In  cultured  soil  and  genial  air, 
To  cloud  the  light  of  Fashion's  room 
Or  droop  in  Beauty's  midnight  hair; 
In  lonelier  grace,  to  sun  and  dew 
The   sweetbrier  on    the    hillside 

shows 

Its  single  leaf  and  fainter  hue, 
Untrained  and  wildly  free,  yet  still  a 
sister  rose! 

Thus  o'er  the  heart  of  Weetamoo 
Their  mingling  shades  of  joy  and 

ill 
The  instincts  of  her  nature  threw,  — 

The  savage  was  a  woman  still. 
Midst      outlines     dim    of    maiden 

schemes, 

Heart-colored  prophecies  of  life, 
Rose   on   the   ground  of  her  young 

dreams 

The  light  of  a  new  home, — the  lover 
and  the  wife. 


IV.     THE    WEDDING. 

COOL  and  dark  fell  the  autumn  night, 
But   the    Bashaba's    wigwam  glowed 

with  light, 
For   down    from   its   roof    by  green 

withes  hung 
Flaring  and  smoking  the   pine-knots 

swung. 

And  along  the  river  great  wood-fires 
Shot   into    the    night   their  long  red 

spires, 

Showing  behind  the  tall,  dark  wood, 
Flashing  before  on  the  sweeping  flood. 

In  the  changeful  wind,  with  shimmer 

and  shade, 
Now    high,   now   low,    that    firelight 

played, 

On  tree-leaves  wet  with  evening  dews, 
On  gliding  water  and  still  canoes. 

The  trapper  that  night  on  Turee's 
brook, 

And  the  weary  fisher  on  Contoocook, 

Saw  over  the  marshes  and  through 
the  pine, 

And  down  on  the  river  the  dance- 
lights  shine. 


For  the  Saugus  Sachem  had  come  to 

woo 

The  Bashaba's  daughter  Weetamoo, 
And  laid  at  her  father's  feet  that  night 
His  softest  furs  and  wampum  white. 

From    the   Crystal    Hills    to    the    far 

southeast 

The  river  Sagamores  came  to  the  feast ; 
And  chiefs  whose  homes  the  sea -winds 

shook, 
Sat  down  on  the  mats  of  Pennacook. 

They  came  from  Sunapee's  shore  of 

rock, 
From  the  snowy  sources  of  Snooga- 

nock, 


THE   BRIDAL  OF   PENNACOOK. 


And   from  rough   Coos   whose  thick 

woods  shake 
Their  pine-cones  in  Umbagog  Lake. 

From  Ammonoosuc's  mountain  pass, 
Wild  as  his  home,  came  Chepewass  ; 
And  the  Keenomps  of  the  hills  which 

throw 
Their  shade  on  the  Smile  of  Manito. 

With    pipes    of     peace    and     bows 

unstrung, 
Glowing  with   paint   came   old    and 

young, 
In   wampum   and   furs    and   feathers 

arrayed 
To  the  dance  and  feast  the  Bashaba 

made. 

Bird  of  the  air  and  beast  of  the  field, 
All  which    the     woods     and     waters 

yield, 
On    dishes    of   birch    and    hemlock 

piled, 
Garnished  and  graced   that  banquet 

wild. 

Steaks  of  the  brown  bear  fat  and  large 
From  the  rocky  slopes  of  the  Kear- 

sarge ; 

Delicate  trout  from  Babboosuck  brook, 
And  salmon  speared  in  the  Contoo- 

cook; 

Squirrels   which    fed  where   nuts  fell 

thick 

In  the  gravelly  bed  of  the  Otternic, 
And  small  wild-hens    in   reed-snares 

caught 
From     the     banks    of    Sondagardee 

brought ; 

Pike   and   perch   from   the    Suncook 

taken, 
Nuts  from  the  trees  of  the  Black  Hills 

shaken, 
Cranberries  picked  in  the  Squamscot 

bog, 
And  grapes  from  the  vines  of  Piscata- 

quog : 


And,  drawn  from  that  great  stone  vase 

which  stands 

In  the  river  scooped  by  a  spirit's  hands, 
Garnished  with  spoons  of  shell  and 

horn, 
Stood  the  birchen  dishes  of  smoking 


Thus  bird  of  the  air  and  beast  of  the 

field, 
All  which  the  woods  and  the  waters 

yield, 

Furnished  in  that  olden  day 
The  bridal  feast  of  the  Bashaba. 

And  merrily  when  that  feast  was  done 
On  the  fire-lit  green  the  dance  begun, 
With  squaws'  shrill  stave,  and  deeper 

hum 
Of  old  men  beating  the  Indian  drum. 

Painted  and  plumed,  with  scalp-locks 

flowing, 
And  red  arms  tossing  and  black  eyes 

glowing, 

Now  in  the  light  and  now  in  the  shade 
Around  the  fires  the  dancers  played. 

The  step  was  quicker,  the  song  more 

shrill, 
And   the   beat   of    the   small    drums 

louder  still 

Whenever  within  the  circle  drew 
The  Saugus  Sachem  and  Weetamoo. 

The  moons  of  forty  winters  had  shed 
Their  snow  upon  that  chieftain's  head, 
And  toil  and  care,  and  battle's  chance 
Had  seamed  his  hard  dark  counte- 
nance. 

A  fawn  beside  the  bison  grim, — 
Why  turns  the  bride's  fond  eye  on  him, 
In  whose  cold  look  is  naught  beside 
The  triumph  of  a  sullen  pride? 

Ask  why  the  graceful  grape  entwines 
The  rough  oak  with  her  arm  of  vines  ; 
And  why  the  gray  rock's  rugged  cheek 
The  soft  lips  of  the  mosses  seek  : 


THE   BRIDAL   OF   PENNACOOK. 


29 


Why,  with  wise  instinct,  Nature  seems 
To  harmonize  her  wide  extremes. 
Linking  the  stronger  with'the  weak, 
The  haughty  with  the  soft  and  meek! 


V.    THE    NEW     HOME. 

A  WILD  and  broken  landscape,  spiked 

with  firs, 

Roughening    the    bleak    horizon's 
northern  edge, 

Steep,  cavernous  hillsides,  where  black 

hemlock  spurs 

And  sharp,  gray  splinters  of  the  wind- 
swept ledge 

Pierced  the  thin-glazed  ice,  or  bris- 
tling rose, 

Where  the  cold  rim  of  the  sky  sunk 
down  upon  the  snows. 

And    eastward    cold,   wide    marshes 

stretched  away, 

Dull,  dreary  flats  without  a  bush  or 
tree, 

O'er-crossed    by    icy   creeks,    where 

twice  a  day 

Gurgled   the   waters  of  the  moon- 
struck sea ; 

And   faint  with   distance    came    the 
stifled  roar, 

The  melancholy  lapse   of  waves   on 
that  low  shore. 

No  cheerful  village  with  its  mingling 

smokes, 

No  laugh  of  children  wrestling  in 
the  snow, 

No  camp-fire  blazing  through  the  hill- 
side oaks, 

No  fishers  kneeling  on  the  ice  be- 
low; 

Yet  midst  all  desolate  things  of  sound 
and  view, 

Through  the  long  winter  moons  smiled 
dark-eyed  Weetamoo. 

Her  heart   had  found  a  home ;    and 

freshly  all 
Its  beautiful  affections  overgrew 


Their  rugged   prop.     As    o'er  some 

granite  wall 

Soft  vine-leaves  open  to  the  mois- 
tening dew 

And   warm   bright   sun,  the   love  of 
that  young  wife 

Found  on  a  hard  cold  breast  the  dew 
and  warmth  of  life. 

The  steep  bleak  hills,  the  melancholy 

shore, 

The  long  dead  level  of  the  marsh 
between, 

A  coloring  of  unreal  beauty  wore 
Through   the  soft   golden  mist   of 
young  love  seen. 

For  o'er  those   hills   and   from   that 
dreary  plain, 

Nightly  she  welcomed  home  her  hun- 
ter chief  again. 

No  warmth  of  heart,  no   passionate 

burst  of  feeling 

Repaid   her  welcoming  smile  and 
parting  kiss, 

No   fond  and  playful    dalliance  half 

concealing, 

Under  the  guise  of  mirth,  its  ten- 
derness ; 

But,    in    their    stead,    the    warrior's 
settled  pride, 

And  vanity's  pleased  smile  with  hom- 
age satisfied. 

Enough  for  Weetamoo,  that  she  alone 
Sat  on  his  mat  and  slumbered  at  his 

side ; 
That  he  whose  fame  to  her  young  ear 

had  flown 
Now  looked  upon   her  proudly  as 

his  bride ; 
That   he  whose   name  the   Mohawk 

trembling  heard 
Vouchsafed  to  her  at  times  a  kindly 

look  or  word. 

For  she  had  learned  the  maxims  of 

her  race, 

Which  teach  the  woman  to  become 
a  slave 


THE   BRIDAL   OF   PENNACOOK. 


And  feel  herself  the  pardonless  dis- 
grace 

Of  love's  fond  weakness  in  the  wise 
and  brave,  — 

The   scandal   and   the  shame  which 
they  incur, 

Who  give  to  woman  all  which  man 
requires  of  her. 

So  passed  the  winter  moons.     The 

sun  at  last 

Broke  link  by  link  the  frost  chain 
of  the  rills, 

And  the  warm  breathings  of  the  south- 
west passed 

Over  the  hoar  rime  of  the  Saugus 
hills ; 

The  gray  and  desolate   marsh  grew 
green  once  more, 

And  the  birch-tree's  tremulous  shade 
fell  round  the  Sachem's  door. 

Then  from  far  Pennacook  swift  run- 
ners came, 

With  gift  and  greeting  for  the  Sau- 
gus chief; 

Beseeching  him  in  the  great  Sachem's 

name, 

That,  with  the  coming  of  the  flower 
and  leaf, 

The  song  of  birds,  the  warm  breeze 
and  the  rain, 

Young  Weetamoo   might    greet   her 
lonely  sire  again. 

And  Winnepurkit  called  his  chiefs  to- 
gether, 

And  a  grave  council  in  his  wigwam 
met, 

Solemn  and  brief  in  words,  consider- 
ing whether 
The  rigid  rules  of  forest  etiquette 

Permitted  Weetamoo  once  more   to 
look 

Upon   her   father's   face   and   green- 
banked  Pennacook. 

With   interludes   of  pipe-smoke  and 
strong  water, 


The  forest  sages  pondered,  and  at 

length, 

Concluded  in  a  body  to  escort  her 
Up  to  her  father's  home  of  pride 

and  strength, 
Impressing    thus    on    Pennacook    a 

sense 

Of  Winnepurkit's    power  and   regal 
consequence. 

So  through  old  woods  which  Aukee- 

tamit's  hand, 

A  soft  and  many-shaded  greenness 
lent, 

Over  high  breezy  hills,  and  meadow 

land 

Yellow  with  flowers,  the  wild  pro- 
cession went, 

Till,  rolling  down  its  wooded  banks 
between, 

A  broad,  clear  mountain  stream,  the 
Merrimack  was  seen. 

The  hunter  leaning  on  his  bow  un- 
drawn, 

The  fisher  lounging  on  the  pebbled 
shores, 

Squaws  in  the  clearing  dropping  the 

seed-corn, 

Young    children    peering   through 
the  wigwam  doors, 

Saw  with  delight,  surrounded  by  her 
train 

Of  painted  Saugus  braves,  their  Wee- 
tamoo again. 


VI.     AT   PENNACOOK. 

THE  hills  are  dearest  which  our  child- 
ish feet 

Have  climbed  the  earliest ;  and  the 
streams  most  sweet 

Are  ever  those  at  which  our  young 
lips  drank, 

Stooped  to  their  waters  o'er  the  grassy 
bank : 

Midst  the  cold  dreary  sea-watch, 
Home's  hearth-light 


THE   BRIDAL  OF   PENNACOOK. 


Shines  round  the  helmsman  plunging 
through  the  night ; 

And  still,  with  inward  eye,  the  trav- 
eller sees 

In  close,  dark,  stranger  streets  his  na- 
tive trees. 

The  home-sick  dreamer's  brow  is 
nightly  fanned 

By  breezes  whispering  of  his  native 
land, 

And  on  the  stranger's  dim  and  dying 
eye 

The  soft,  sweet  pictures  of  his  child- 
hood lie. 

Joy  then  for  Weetamoo,  to  sit  once 

more 
A   child   upon   her  father's   wigwam 

floor! 
Once  more  with  her  old  fondness  to 

beguile 
From  his  cold  eye  the  strange  light 

of  a  smile. 

The  long  bright  days  of  summer 
swiftly  passed, 

The  dry  leaves  whirled  in  autumn's 
rising  blast, 

And  evening  cloud  and  whitening 
sunrise  rime 

Told  of  the  coming  of  the  winter- 
time. 

But  vainly  looked,  the  while,  young 

Weetamoo, 
Down  the  dark  river  for  her  chiefs 

canoe ; 
No    dusky   messenger  from    Saugus 

brought 
The  grateful  tidings  which  the  young 

wife  sought. 

At  length  a  runner  from  her  father 

sent, 
To  Winnepurkit's  sea-cooled  wigwam 

went : 
"  Eagle  of  Saugus,  —  in  the  woods  the 

dove 


Mourns  for  the  shelter  of  thy  wings  of 
love." 

But  the  dark  cnief  of  Saugus  turned 

aside 
In   the   grim    anger   of  hard-hearted 

pride  ; 
"I  bore  her  as  became  a  chieftain's 

daughter, 
Up  to  her  home  beside  the  gliding 

water. 

"If  now  no  more  a  mat   for  her  is 

found 
Of  all  which  line  her  father's  wigwam 

round, 
Let  Pennacook   call  out   his  warrior 

train, 
And  send  her  back  with  wampum  gifts 

again." 

The  baffled  runner  turned  upon  his 
track, 

Bearing  the  words  of  Winnepurkit 
back. 

"  Dog  of  the  Marsh,"  cried  Penna- 
cook, "  no  more 

Shall  child  of  mine  sit  on  his  wigwam 
floor. 

"Go,  —  let    him   seek   some   meaner 

squaw  to  spread 
The  stolen  bear-skin  of  his  beggar's 

bed: 
Son  of  a  fish-hawk  !  —  let  him  dig  his 

clams 
For  some  vile  daughter  of  the  Aga- 


"Or  coward  Nipmucks!  —  may  his 
scalp  dry  black 

In  Mohawk  smoke,  before  I  send  her 
back." 

He  shook  his  clenched  hand  towards 
the  ocean  wave, 

While  hoarse  assent  his  listening  coun- 
cil gave. 

Alas,  poor  bride  !  —  can  thy  grim  sire 
impart 


THE   BRIDAL  OF   PENNACOOK. 


His   iron   hardness   to   thy  woman's 

heart  ? 
Or  cold  self-torturing  pride  like  his 

atone 
For  love  denied  and  life's  warm  beauty 

flown  ? 

On  Autumn's  gray  and  mournful  grave 

the  snow 
Hung  its  white  wreaths ;  with  stifled 

voice  and  low 
The  river  crept,  by  one  vast  bridge 

o'ercrossed, 
Built   by  the  hoar-locked  artisan   of 

Frost. 

And  many  a  Moon  in  beauty  newly 
born 

Pierced  the  red  sunset  with  her  silver 
horn, 

Or,  from  the  east,  across  her  azure  field 

Rolled  the  wide  brightness  of  her  full- 
orbed  shield. 

Yet  Winnepurkit  came  not,  —  on  the 

mat 
Of  the  scorned  wife  her  dusky  rival 

sat; 
And  he,  the  while,  in  Western  woods 

afar, 
Urged  the  long  chase,  or  trod  the 

path  of  war. 

Dry  up  thy  tears,  young  daughter  of 

a  chief ! 
Waste  not  on  him  the  sacredness  of 

grief; 
Be  the  fierce  spirit  of  thy  sire  thine 

own, 
His  lips  of  scorning,  and  his  heart  of 

stone. 

What  heeds  the  warrior  of  a  hundred 
fights, 

The  storm-worn  watcher  through  long 
hunting  nights, 

Cold,  crafty,  proud  of  woman's  weak 
distress, 

Her  home-bound  grief  and  pining  lone- 
liness? 


VII.     THE   DEPARTURE. 

THE  wild  March  rains  had  fallen  fast 
and  long 

The  snowy  mountains  of  the  North 
among, 

Making  each  vale  a  watercourse, — 
each  hill 

Bright  with  the  cascade  of  some  new- 
made  rill. 

Gnawed  by  the  sunbeams,  softened  by 

the  rain, 
Heaved  underneath   by  the   swollen 

current's  strain, 
The  ice-bridge  yielded,  and  the  Merri- 

mack 
Bore  the  huge  ruin  crashing  down  its 

track. 

On  that  strong  turbid  water,  a  small 

boat 
Guided  by  one  weak  hand  was  seen  to 

float'; 
Evil  the  fate  which  loosed  it  from  the 

shore, 
Too  early  voyager  with  too  frail  an 

oar! 

Down  the  vexed  centre  of  that  rushing 

tide, 
The  thick  huge  ice-blocks  threatening 

either  side, 
The  foam-white  rocks  of  Amoskeag  in 

view, 
With  arrowy  swiftness  sped  that  light 

canoe. 

The  trapper,  moistening  his  moose's 

meat 
On  the  wet  bank   by  Uncanoonuc's 

feet, 
Saw  the  swift    boat   flash    down  the 

troubled  stream  — 
Slept  he,  or  waked  he?  —  was  it  truth 

or  dream  ? 

The  straining  eye  bent  fearfully  before, 
The  small  hand  clenching  on  the  use- 
less oar, 


THE  BRIDAL   OF   PENNACOOK. 


33 


The  bead-wrought  blanket  trailing  o'er 
the  water  — 

He  knew  them  all  —  woe  for  the  Sa- 
chem's daughter. 

Sick  and  aweary  of  her  lonely  life, 
Heedless  of  peril  the  still  faithful  wife 
Had  left  her  mother's  grave,  her  fa- 
ther's door, 

To  seek  the  wigwam  of  her  chief  once 
more. 

Down  the  white  rapids  like  a  sere  leaf 

whirled, 
On  the  sharp  rocks  and  piled-up  ices 

hurled, 

Empty  and  broken,  circled  the  canoe 
In  the  vexed  pool  below  —  but,  where 

was  Weetamoo  ? 


VIII.     SONG   OF   INDIAN   WOMEN. 

THE  Dark  eye  has  left  us, 

The  Spring-bird  has  flown  ; 
On  the  pathway  of  spirits 

She  wanders  alone. 
The  song  of  the  wood-dove  has  died 

on  our  shore,  — 

Mat  wonck  kunna-monee !  —  We  hear 
it  no  more! 

O,  dark  water  Spirit  ! 

We  cast  on  thy  wave 
These  furs  which  may  never 

Hang  over  her  grave  ; 
Bear  down  to  the  lost  one  the  robes 

that  she  wore,  — 

Mat  ivonck  kunna-monee  I  —  We  see 
her  no  more! 

Of  the  strange  land  she  walks  in 
No  Powah  has  told : 


It  may  burn  with  the  sunshine, 

Or  freeze  with  the  cold. 
Let  us  give  to  our  lost  one  the  robes 

that  she  wore, 

Mat  wonck  kunna  monee  I  —  We  see 
her  no  more ! 


The  path  she  is  treading 
Shall  soon  be  our  own ; 
Each  gliding  in  shadow 
Unseen  and  alone!  — 
In  vain  shall  we  call  on  the  souls  gone 

before,  — 

Mat    wonck    kunna-monee !  —  They 
hear  us  no  more! 


O  mighty  Sowanna! 

Thy  gateways  unfold, 
From  thy  wigwam  of  sunset 

Lift  curtains  of  gold ! 
Take  home  the  poor  Spirit  whose  jour- 
ney is  o'er,  — 

Mat  wonck  kunna-monee !  —  We  see 
her  no  more  ! 


So  sang  the  Children  of  the  Leaves 
beside 

The  broad,  dark  river's  coldly-flowing 
tide, 

Now  low,  now  harsh,  with  sob-like 
pause  and  swell, 

On  the  high  wind  their  voices  rose  and 
fell. 

Nature's  wild  music, — sounds  of  wind- 
swept trees. 

The  scream  of  birds,  the  wailing  of  the 
breeze, 

The  roar  of  waters,  steady,  deep,  and 
strong,  — 

Mingled  and  murmured  in  that  fare- 
well sons:. 


34 


LEGENDARY. 


LEGENDARY,    1846. 


THE   MERRIMACK. 

["  The  Indians  speak  of  a  beautiful  river, 
far  to  the  south,  which  they  call  Merri- 
mack."  — SiEUR  DE  MONTS:  1604.] 

STREAM  of  my  fathers !  sweetly  still 
The  sunset  rays  thy  valley  fill ; 
Poured  slantwise  down  the  long  de- 
file, 
Wave,  wood,  and  spire  beneath  them 

smile. 

I  see  the  winding  Powow  fold 
The  green  hill  in  its  belt  of  gold, 
And  following  down  its  wavy  line. 
Its  sparkling  waters  blend  with  thine. 
There 's  not  a  tree  upon  thy  side, 
Nor  rock,  which  thy  returning  tide 
As  yet  hath  left  abrupt  and  stark 
Above  thy  evening  water-mark  ; 
No  calm  cove  with  its  rocky  hem, 
No  isle  whose  emerald  swells  begem 
Thy   broad,   smooth    current;    not  a 

sail 

Bowed  to  the  freshening  ocean  gale ; 
No  small  boat  with  its  busy  oars, 
Nor  gray  wall  sloping  to  thy  shores  ; 
Nor  farm-house  with  its  maple  shade, 
Or  rigid  poplar  colonnade, 
But  lies  distinct  and  full  in  sight, 
Beneath  this  gush  of  sunset  light. 
Centuries  ago,  that  harbor-bar, 
Stretching  its  length  of  foam  afar, 
And    Salisbury's   beach    of    shining 

sand, 
And  yonder  island's  wave-smoothed 

strand, 

Saw  the  adventurer's  tiny  sail 
Flit,  stooping  from  the  eastern  gale  ; 
And    o'er   these    woods   and    waters 

broke 
The  cheer  from    Britain's   hearts   of 

oak, 

As  brightly  on  the  voyager's  eye, 
Weary  of  forest,  sea,  and  sky, 
Breaking  the  dull  continuous  wood. 


The     Merrimack     rolled    down    his 

flood  ; 

Mingling  that  clear  pellucid  brook, 
Which  channels  vast  Agioochook 
When  spring-time's  sun  and  shower 

unlock 

The  frozen  fountains  of  the  rock, 
And  more  abundant  waters  given 
From  that  pure  lake,  "•  The  Smile  of 

Heaven," 

Tributes   from   vale    and    mountain- 
side, — 
With  ocean's  dark,  eternal  tide! 

On  yonder  rocky  cape,  which  braves 
The  stormy  challenge  of  the  waves, 
Midst  tangled  vine  and  dwarfish  wood, 
The  hardy  Anglo-Saxon  stood, 
Planting  upon  the  topmost  crag 
The  staff  of  England's  battle-flag ; 
And,  while  from  out  its  heavy  fold 
Saint    George's    crimson    cross    un- 
rolled, 
Midst    roll    of    drum    and    trumpet 

blare, 

And  weapons  brandishing  in  air, 
He  gave  to  that  lone  promontory 
The  sweetest  name  in  all  his  story ; 
Of  her,  the  flower  of  Islam's  daughters, 
Whose  harems   look   on  Stamboul's 

waters,  — 
Who,  when   the  chance   of  war  had 

bound 

The  Moslem  chain  his  limbs  around, 
Wreathed   o'er  with    silk    that    iron 

chain, 
Soothed  with  her  smiles  his  hours  of 

pain, 

And  fondly  to  her  youthful  slave 
A  dearer  gift  than  freedom  gave. 

But  look !  —  the  yellow  light  no  more 
Streams  down  on  wave  and  verdant 

shore ; 

And  clearly  on  the  calm  air  swells 
The  twilight  voice  of  distant  bells. 


THE  NORSEMEN. 


From    Ocean's    bosom,    white     and 

thin, 

The  mists  come  slowly  rolling  in  ; 
Hills,  woods,  the  river's  rocky  rim, 
Amidst  the  sea-like  vapor  swim. 
While  yonder  lonely  coast-light,  set 
Within  its  wave-washed  minaret, 
Half  quenched,  a  beamless  star  and 

pale. 
Shines  dimly  through  its  cloudy  veil ! 

Home  of  my  fathers !  —  I  have  stood 
Where     Hudson    rolled    his     lordly 

flood  : 

Seen  sunrise  rest  and  sunset  fade 
Along  his  frowning  Palisade; 
Looked  down  the  Appalachian  peak 
On  Juniata's  silver  streak  ; 
Have  seen  along  his  valley  gleam 
The  Mohawk's  softly  winding  stream  ; 
The  level  light  of  sunset  shine 
Through   broad    Potomac's    hem   of 

pine ; 

And  autumn's  rainbow-tinted  banner 
Hang  lightly  o'er  the  Susquehanna ; 
Yet,  wheresoe'er  his  step  might  be, 
Thy  wandering  child  looked  back  to 

Thee! 

Heard  in  his  dreams  thy  river's  sound 
Of  murmuring  on  its  pebbly  bound, 
The  unforgotten  swell  and  roar 
Of  waves  on  thy  familiar  shore  ; 
And  saw,  amidst  the  curtained  gloom 
And  quiet  of  his  lonely  room, 
Thy  sunset  scenes  before  him  pass  ; 
As,  in  Agrippa's  magic  glass, 
The  loved  and  lost  arose  to  view, 
Remembered    groves     in    greenness 

grew, 
Bathed   still  in  childhood's  morning 

dew, 

Along  whose  bowers  of  beauty  swept 
Whatever  Memory's  mourners  wept, 
Sweet  faces,  which  the  charnel  kept, 
Young,  gentle  eyes,  which  long  had 

slept ; 

And  while  the  gazer  leaned  to  trace, 
More  near,  some  dear  familiar  face, 
He  wept  to  find  the  vision  flown, — 
A  phantom  and  a  dream  alone ! 


THE    NORSEMEN. 

GIFT  from  the  cold  and  silent  Past! 
A  relic  to  the  present  cast ; 
Left  on  the  ever-changing  strand 
Of  shifting  and  unstable  sand, 
Which  wastes   beneath    the    steady 

chime 

And  beating  of  the  waves  of  Time ! 
Who  from  its  bed  of  primal  rock 
First   wrenched  thy  dark,  unshapely 

block? 

Whose  hand,  of  curious  skill  untaught, 
Thy  rude  and  savage  outline  wrought  ? 

The  waters  of  my  native  stream 
Are  glancing  in  the  sun's  warm  beam : 
From  sail-urged  keel  and  flashing  oar 
The  circles  widen  to  its  shore ; 
And  cultured  field  and  peopled  town 
Slope  to  its  willowed  margin  down. 
Yet,  while  this    morning    breeze    is 

bringing 
The  home-life  sound  of  school-bells 

ringing, 

And  rolling  wheel,  and  rapid  jar 
Of  the  fire-winged  and  steedless  car, 
And  voices  from  the  wayside  near 
Come  quick  and  blended  on  my  ear, 
A  spell  is  in  this  old  gray  stone,— 
My  thoughts  are  with  the  Past  alone! 

A   change!  —  the  steepled    town   no 

more 
Stretches     along    the    sail-thronged 

shore ; 

Like  palace-domes  in  sunset's  cloud, 
Fade     sun -gilt    spire    and    mansion 

proud : 

Spectrally  rising  where  they  stood, 
I  see  the  old,  primeval  wood  : 
Dark,  shadow-like,  on  either  hand 
I  see  its  solemn  waste  expand : 
It  climbs  the  green  and  cultured  hill, 
It  arches  o'er  the  valley's  rill ; 
And  leans  from  clififand  crag,  to  throw 
Its  wild  arms  o'er  the  stream  below. 
Unchanged,  alone,  the   same   bright 

river 


LEGENDARY. 


Flows  on,  as  it  will  flow  forever ! 
I  listen,  and  I  hear  the  low 
Soft  ripple  where  its  waters  go ; 
I  hear  behind  the  panther's  cry, 
The  wild-bird's  scream  goes  thrilling 

t>y> 

And  shyly  on  the  river's  brink 
The  deer  is  stooping  down  to  drink. 

But  hark !  —  from  wood  and  rock  flung 

back, 

What  sound  comes  up  the  Merrimack  ? 
What  sea-worn  barks  are  those  which 

throw 
The  light   spray   from  each  rushing 

prow? 
Have   they   not  in   the  North  Sea's 

blast 
Bowed  to   the   waves    the  straining 

mast? 

Their  frozen  sails  the  low,  pale  sun 
Of  Thud's  night  has  shone  upon  ; 
Flapped  by  the  sea-wind's  gusty  sweep 
Round  icy  drift,  and  headland  steep. 
Wild  Jutland's  wives  and   Lochlin's 

daughters 
Have  watched  them  fading  o'er  the 

waters, 
Lessening   through  driving  mist  and 

spray, 
Like  white-winged  sea-birds  on  their 

way  ! 

Onward  they  glide,  —  and  now  I  view 
Their  iron-armed  and  stalwart  crew  ; 
Joy  glistens  in  each  wild  blue  eye, 
Turned  to  green  earth   and  summer 

sky : 
Each  broad,  seamed  breast  has  cast 

aside 

Its  cumbering  vest  of  shaggy  hide  ; 
Bared  to  the  sun  and  soft  warm  air, 
Streams  back  the  Norsemen's  yellow 

hair. 

I  see  the  gleam  of  axe  and  spear, 
The  sound  of  smitten  shields  I  hear, 
Keeping  a  harsh  and  fitting  time 
To  Saga's  chant,  and  Runic  rhyme  ; 
Such  lays  as  Zetland's  Scald  has  sung, 
His  gray  and  naked  isles  among ; 


Or  muttered  low  at  midnight  hour 
Round  Odin's  mossy  stone  of  power. 
The  wolf  beneath  the  Arctic  moon 
Has  answered  to  that  startling  rune ; 
The  Gael  has  heard  its  stormy  swell, 
The  light  Frank  knows  its  summons 

well; 

lona's  sable-stoled  Culdee 
Has  heard  it  sounding  o'er  the  sea, 
And   swept,   with   hoary   beard    and 

hair, 
His  altar's  foot  in  trembling  prayer! 

'T  is    past,  —  the    'wildering    vision 

dies 

In  darkness  on  my  dreaming  eyes! 
The  forest  vanishes  in  air,  — 
Hill-slope  and  vale  lie  starkly  bare ; 
I  hear  the  common  tread  of  men, 
And  hum  of  work-day  life  again  : 
The  mystic  relic  seems  alone 
A  broken  mass  of  common  stone  ; 
And  if  it  be  the  chiselled  limb 
Of  Berserker  or  idol  grim,  — 
A  fragment  of  Valhalla's  Thor, 
The  stormy  Viking's  god  of  War, 
Or  Praga  of  the  Runic  lay, 
Or  love-awakening  Siona, 
I  know  not,  —  for  no  graven  line, 
Nor  Druid  mark,  nor  Runic  sign, 
Is  left  me  here,  by  which  to  trace 
Its  name,  or  origin,  or  place. 
Yet,  for  this  vision  of  the  Past, 
This  glance  upon  its  darkness  cast, 
My  spirit  bows  in  gratitude 
Before  the  Giver  of  all  good, 
Who  fashioned  so  the  human  mind. 
That,  from  the  waste  of  Time  behind 
A  simple  stone,  or  mound  of  earth, 
Can  summon  the  departed  forth  ; 
Quicken  the  Past  to  life  again,  — 
The     Present     lose    in     what    hath 

been, 

And  in  their  primal  freshness  show 
The  buried  forms  of  long  ago. 
As  if  a  portion  of  that  Thought 
By  which  the  Eternal  will  is  wrought, 
Whose  impulse  fills  anew  with  breath 
The  frozen  solitude  of  Death, 
To  mortal  mind  were  sometimes  lent, 


CASSANDRA   SOUTH  WICK. 


37 


To  mortal  musings  sometimes  sent, 
To  whisper —  even  when  it  seems 
But  Memory's  fantasy  of  dreams  — 


Through  the  mind's  waste  of  woe  and 

sin, 
Of  an  immortal  origin ! 


CASSANDRA   SOUTHWICK. 

1658. 

To  the  God  of  all  sure  mercies  let  my  blessing  rise  to-day, 
From  the  scoffer  and  the  cruel  He  hath  plucked  the  spoil  away, — 
Yea,  He  who  cooled  the  furnace  around  the  faithful  three, 
And  tamed  the  Chaldean  lions,  hath  set  His  handmaid  free ! 

Last  night  I  saw  the  sunset  melt  through  my  prison  bars, 
Last  night  across  my  damp  earth-floor  fell  the  pale  gleam  of  stars ; 
In  the  coldness  and  the  darkness  all  through  the  long  night-time, 
My  grated  casement  whitened  with  autumn's  early  rime. 

Alone,  in  that  dark  sorrow,  hour  after  hour  crept  by ; 
Star  after  star  looked  palely  in  and  sank  adown  the  sky ; 
No  sound  amid  night's  stillness,  save  that  which  seemed  to  be 
The  dull  and  heavy  beating  of  the  pulses  of  the  sea  ; 

All  night  I  sat  unsleeping,  for  I  knew  that  on  the  morrow 
The  ruler  and  the  cruel  priest  would  mock  me  in  my  sorrow, 
Dragged  to  their  place  of  market,  and  bargained  for  and  sold, 
Like  a  lamb  before  the  shambles,  like  a  heifer  from  the  fold ! 

O,  the  weakness  of  the  flesh  was  there,  —  the  shrinking  and  the  shame ; 
And  the  low  voice  of  the  Tempter  like  whispers  to  me  came : 
"Why  sit'st  thou  thus  forlornly! "  the  wicked  murmur  said, 
"  Damp  walls  thy  bower  of  beauty,  cold  earth  thy  maiden  bed  ? 

"  Where  be  the  smiling  faces,  and  voices  soft  and  sweet, 
Seen  in  thy  father's  dwelling,  heard  in  the  pleasant  street? 
Where  be  the  youths  whose  glances,  the  summer  Sabbath  through, 
Turned  tenderly  and  timidly  unto  thy  father's  pew? 

"  Why  sit'st  thou  here,  Cassandra?  —  Bethink  thee  with  what  mirth 
Thy  happy  schoolmates  gather  around  the  warm  bright  hearth  ; 
How  the  crimson  shadows  tremble  on  foreheads  white  and  fair, 
On  eyes  of  merry  girlhood,  half  hid  in  golden  hair. 

"  Not  for  thee  the  hearth-fire  brightens,  not  for  thee  kind  words  are  spoken 
Not  for  thee  the  nuts  of  Wenham  woods  by  laughing  boys  are  broken, 
No  first-fruits  of  the  orchard  within  thy  lap  are  laid, 
For  thee  no  flowers  of  autumn  the  youthful  hunters  braid. 


38  LEGENDARY. 


"  O,  weak,  deluded  maiden!  —  by  crazy  fancies  led, 

With  wild  and  raving  railers  an  evil  path  to  tread ; 

To  leave  a  wholesome  worship,  and  teaching  pure  and  sound ; 

And  mate  with  maniac  women,  loose-haired  and  sackcloth  bound. 

"  Mad  scoffers  of  the  priesthood,  who  mock  at  things  divine, 
Who  rail  against  the  pulpit,  and  holy  bread  and  wine  ; 
Sore  from  their  cart-tail  scourgings,  and  from  the  pillory  lame, 
Rejoicing  in  their  wretchedness,  and  glorying  in  their  shame. 

"  And  what  a  fate  awaits  thee  ?  —  a  sadly  toiling  slave, 
Dragging  the  slowly  lengthening  chain  of  bondage  to  the  grave! 
Think  of  thy  woman's  nature,  subdued  in  hopeless  thrall, 
The  'easy  prey  of  any,  the  scoff  and  scorn  of  all  ! " 

O,  ever  as  the  Tempter  spoke,  and  feeble  Nature's  fears 
Wrung  drop  by  drop  the  scalding  flow  of  unavailing  tears, 
I  wrestled  down  the  evil  thoughts,  and  strove  in  silent  prayer, 
To  feel,  O  Helper  of  the  weak!  that  Thou  indeed  wert  there! 

I  thought  of  Paul  and  Silas,  within  Philippics  cell, 
And  how  from  Peter's  sleeping  limbs  the  prison-shackles  fell, 
Till  I  seemed  to  hear  the  trailing  of  an  angel's  robe  of  white, 
And  to  feel  a  blessed  presence  invisible  to  sight. 

Bless  the  Lord  for  all  his  mercies !  —  for  the  peace  and  love  I  felt, 
Like  dew  of  Hermon's  holy  hill,  upon  my  spirit  melt ; 
When,  "  Get  behind  me,  Satan !  "  was  the  language  of  my  heart, 
And  I  felt  the  Evil  Tempter  with  all  his  doubts  depart. 

Slow  broke  the  gray  cold  morning ;  again  the  sunshine  fell, 
Flecked  with  the  shade  of  bar  and  grate  within  my  lonely  cell ; 
The  hoar-frost  melted  on  the  wall,  and  upward  from  the  street 
Came  careless  laugh  and  idle  word,  and  tread  of  passing  feet. 

At  length  the  heavy  bolts  fell  back,  my  door  was  open  cast, 
And  slowly  at  the  sheriff's  side,  up  the  long  street  I  passed ; 
I  heard  the  murmur  round  me,  and  felt,  but  dared  not  see, 
How,  from  every  door  and  window,  the  people  gazed  on  me. 

And  doubt  and  fear  fell  on  me,  shame  burned  upon  my  cheek, 

Swam  earth  and  sky  around  me,  my  trembling  limbs  grew  weak : 

"  O  Lord !    support  thy  handmaid  ;  and  from  her  soul  cast  out 

The  fear  of  man,  which  brings  a  snare,  —  the  weakness  and  the  doubt.' 

Then  the  dreary  shadows  scattered,  like  a  cloud  in  morning's  breeze. 
And  a  low  deep  voice  within  me  seemed  whispering  words  like  these : 
"  Though  thy  earth  be  as  the  iron,  and  thy  heaven  a  brazen  wall, 
Trust  still  His  loving-kindness  whose  power  is  over  all." 


CASSANDRA  SOUTHWICK.  39 

We  paused  at  length,  where  at  my  feet  the  sunlit  waters  broke 
On  glaring  reach  of  shining  beach,  and  shingly  wall  of  rock  ; 
The  merchant-ships  lay  idly  there,  in  hard  clear  lines  on  high. 
Tracing  with  rope  and  slender  spar  their  network  on  the  sky. 

And  there  were  ancient  citizens,  cloak-wrapped  and  grave  and  cold, 
And  grim  and  stout  sea-captains  with  faces  bronzed  and  old, 
And  on  his  horse,  with  Rawson,  his  cruel  clerk  at  hand, 
Sat  dark  and  haughty  Endicott,  the  ruler  of  the  land. 

And  poisoning  with  his  evil  words  the  ruler's  ready  ear, 
The  priest  leaned  o'er  his  saddle,  with  laugh  and  scoff  and  jeer ; 
It  stirred  my  soul,  and  from  my  lips  the  seal  of  silence  broke, 
As  if  through  woman's  weakness  a  warning  spirit  spoke. 

I  cried,  "  The  Lord  rebuke  thee,  thou  smiter  of  the  meek, 
Thou  robber  of  the  righteous,  thou  trampler  of  the  weak! 
"Go  light  the  dark,  cold  hearth-stones,  — go  turn  the  prison  lock 
Of  the  poor  hearts  thou  hast  hunted,  thou  wolf  amid  the  flock!1' 

• 

Dark  lowered  the  brows  of  Endicott,  and  with  a  deeper  red 

O'er  Rawson's  wine-empurpled  cheek  the  flush  of  anger  spread; 

"Good  people,'1  quoth  the  white-lipped  priest,  "heed  not  her  words  so  wild, 

Her  Master  speaks  within  her,  —  the  Devil  owns  his  child!" 

But  gray  heads  shook,  and  young  brows  knit,  the  while  the  sheriff  read 
That  law  the  wicked  rulers  against  the  poor  have  made, 
Who  to  their  house  of  Rimmon  and  idol  priesthood  bring 
No  bended  knee  of  worship,  nor  gainful  offering. 

Then  to  the  stout  sea-captains  the  sheriff,  turning,  said,  — 
"  Which  of  ye,  worthy  seamen,  will  take  this  Quaker  maid? 
In  the  Isle  of  fair  Barbadoes,  or  on  Virginia's  shore, 
You  may  hold  her  at  a  higher  price  than  Indian  girl  or  Moor." 

Grim  and  silent  stood  the  captains  ;  and  when  again  he  cried, 
"Speak  out,  my  worthy  seamen !"  —  no  voice,  no  sign  replied; 
But  I  felt  a  hard  hand  press  my  own,  and  kind  words  met  my  ear, — 
"God  bless  thee,  and  preserve  thee,  my  gentle  girl  and  dear!  " 

A  weight  seemed  lifted  from  my  heart,  —  a  pitying  friend  was  nigh, 
I  felt  it  in  his  hard,  rough  hand,  and  saw  it  in  his  eye ; 
And  when  again  the  sheriff  spoke,  that  voice,  so  kind  to  me, 
Growled  back  its  stormy  answer  like  the  roaring  of  the  sea,  — 

"  Pile  my  ship  with  bars  of  silver,  —  pack  with  coins  of  Spanish  gold, 
From  keel-piece  up  to  deck-plank,  the  roomage  of  her  hold, 
By  the  living  God  who  made  me! —  I  would  sooner  in  your  bay 
Sink  ship  and  crew  and  cargo,  than  bear  this  child  away!" 


40  LEGENDARY. 


"  Well  answered,  worthy  captain,  shame  on  their  cruel  laws  ! " 
Ran  through  the  crowd  in  murmurs  loud  the  people's  just  applause. 
"  Like  the  herdsman  of  Tekoa,  in  Israel  of  old, 
Shall  we  see  the  poor  and  righteous  again  for  silver  sold  ? " 


I  looked  on  haughty  Endicott ;  with  weapon  half-way  drawn, 
Swept  round  the  throng  his  lion  glare  of  bitter  hate  and  scorn ; 
Fiercely  he  drew  his  bridle-rein,  and  turned  in  silence  back, 
And  sneering  priest  and  baffled  clerk  rode  murmuring  in  his  track. 

Hard  after  them  the  sheriff  looked,  in  bitterness  of  soul ; 
Thrice  smote  his  staff  upon  the  ground,  and  crushed  his  parchment  roll. 
"  Good  friends,"  he  said,  "  since  both  have  fled,  the  ruler  and  the  priest, 
Judge  ye,  if  from  their  further  work  I  be  not  well  released." 

Loud  was  the  cheer  which,  full  and  clear,  swept  round  the  silent  bay, 
As,  with  kind  words  and  kinder  looks,  he  bade  me  go  my  way ; 
For  He  who  turns  the  courses  of  the  streamlet  of  the  glen, 
And  the  river  of  great  waters,  had  turned  the  hearts  of  men. 

O,  at  that  hour  the  very  earth  seemed  changed  beneath  my  eye, 
A  holier  wonder  round  me  rose  the  blue  walls  of  the  sky, 
A  lovelier  light  on  rock  and  hill,  and  stream  and  woodland  lay, 
And  softer  lapsed  on  sunnier  sands  the  waters  of  the  bay. 

Thanksgiving  to  the  Lord  of  life!  —  to  Him  all  praises  be, 
Who  from  the  hands  of  evil  men  hath  set  his  handmaid  free ; 
All  praise  to  Him  before  whose  power  the  mighty  are  afraid, 
Who  takes  the  crafty  in  the  snare,  which  for  the  poor  is  laid ! 

Sing,  O  my  soul,  rejoicingly,  on  evening's  twilight  calm 
Uplift  the  loud  thanksgiving,  —  pour  forth  the  grateful  psalm ; 
Let  all  dear  hearts  with  me  rejoice,  as  did  the  saints  of  old, 
When  of  the  Lord's  good  angel  the  rescued  Peter  told. 

And  weep  and  howl,  ye  evil  priests  and  mighty  men  of  wrong ; 
The  Lord  shall  smite  the  proud,  and  lay  his  hand  upon  the  strong. 
Woe  to  the  wicked  rulers  in  his  avenging  hour  ! 
Woe  to  the  wolves  who  seek  the  flocks  to  raven  and  devour  ! 


But  let  the  humble  ones  arise,  —  the  poor  in  heart  be  glad. 
And  let  the  mourning  ones  again  with  robes  of  praise  be  clad, 
For  He  who  cooled  the  furnace,  and  smoothed  the  stormy  wave, 
And  tamed  the  Chaldean  lions,  is  mighty  still  to  save  ! 


FUNERAL  TREE  OF  THE  SOKOKIS. 


FUNERAL    TREE    OF   THE 
SOKOKIS. 

1756. 

AROUND  Sebago's  lonely  lake 
There  lingers  not  a  breeze  to  break 
The  mirror  which  its  waters  make. 

The  solemn  pines  along  its  shore, 
The  firs  which  hang  its  gray  rocks  o'er, 
Are  painted  on  its  glassy  floor. 

The  sun  looks  o'er,  with  hazy  eye, 
The  snowy  mountain-tops  which  lie 
Piled  coldly  up  against  the  sky. 

Dazzling  and  white  !  save  where  the 
bleak, 

Wild  winds  have  bared  some  splinter- 
ing peak, 

Or  snow-slide  left  its  dusky  streak. 

Yet  green  are  Saco's  banks  below, 
And  belts  of  spruce  and  cedar  show, 
Dark  fringing  round  those  cones  of 


The  earth  hath  felt  the  breath  of  spring, 
Though  yet  on  her  deliverer's  wing 
The  lingering  frosts  of  winter  cling. 

Fresh  grasses   fringe    the    meadow- 
brooks, 

And  mildly  from  its  sunny  nooks 
The  blue  eye  of  the  violet  looks. 

And  odors  from  the  springing  grass, 
The  sweet  birch  and  the  sassafras, 
Upon  the  scarce-felt  breezes  pass. 

Her  tokens  of  renewing  care 
Hath  Nature  scattered  everywhere, 
In  bud  and  flower,  and  warmer  air. 

But  in  their  hour  of  bitterness, 
What  reck  the  broken  Sokokis, 
Beside    their    slaughtered    chief,    of 
this? 


The  turfs  red  stain  is  yet  undried,  — 
Scarce  have  the  death-shot  echoes 

died 
Along  Sebago's  wooded  side : 

And  silent  now  the  hunters  stand, 
Grouped  darkly,  where  a  swell  of  land 
Slopes  upward  from  the  lake's  white 
sand. 

Fire  and  the  axe  have  swept  it  bare, 
Save  one  lone  beech,  unclosing  there 
Its  light  leaves  in  the  vernal  air. 

With   grave,   cold   looks,  all   sternly 

mute, 

They  break  the  damp  turf  at  its  foot, 
And  bare  its  coiled  and  twisted  root. 

They  heave  the  stubborn  trunk  aside, 
The  firm  roots  from  the  earth  divide, — 
The  rent  beneath  yawns  darkand  wide. 

And  there  the  fallen  chief  is  laid, 
In  tasselled  garbs  of  skins  arrayed, 
And  girded  with  his  wampum-braid. 

The  silver  cross  he  loved  is  pressed 
Beneath  the  heavy  arms,  which  rest 
Upon  his  scarred  and  naked  breast. 

'T  is  done :  the   roots   are  backward 

sent, 

The  beechen-tree  stands  up  unbent, — 
The  Indian's  fitting  monument ! 

When  of  that  sleeper's  broken  race 
Their  green  and  pleasant   dwelling- 
place 

Which  knew  them  once,  retains  no 
trace ; 

O,  long  may  sunset's  light  be  shed 
As  now  upon  that  beech's  head,  — 
A  green  memorial  of  the  dead  ! 

There  shall  his  fitting  requiem  be, 
In  northern  winds,  that,  cold  and 

free, 
Howl  nightly  in  that  funeral  tree. 


LEGENDARY. 


To  their  wild  wail  the  waves  which 

break 

Forever  round  that  lonely  lake 
A  solemn  undertone  shall  make ! 

And  who  shall  deem  the  spot  unblest, 
Where  Nature's  younger  children  rest, 
Lulled   on   their  sorrowing   mother's 
breast  ? 

Deem  ye  that  mother  loveth  less 
These  bronzed  forms  of  the  wilderness 
She  foldeth  in  her  long  caress? 

As  sweet  o'er  them  her  wild-flowers 

blow, 

As  if  with  fairer  hair  and  brow 
The  blue-eyed  Saxon  slept  below. 

What  though  the  places  of  their  rest 
No  priestly  knee  hath  ever  pressed,  — 
No    funeral     rite    nor    prayer    hath 
blessed? 

What  though  the  bigot's  ban  be  there, 
And  thoughts  of  wailing  and  despair, 
And  cursing  in  the  place  of  prayer! 

Yet    Heaven    hath    angels   watching 

round 

The  Indian's  lowliest  forest-mound, — 
And  they  have  made  it  holy  ground. 

There  ceases  man's    frail  judgment; 

all 

His  powerless  bolts  of  cursing  foil 
Unheeded  on  that  grassy  pall. 

O,  peeled,  and  hunted,  and  reviled, 
Sleep  on,  dark  tenant  of  the  wild! 
Great  Nature  owns  her  simple  child ! 

And  Nature's  God,  to  whom  alone 
The  secret  of  the  heart  is  known,  — 
The  hidden  language  traced  thereon  ; 

Who  from  its  many  cumberings 

Of    form    and    creed,    and    outward 

tilings, 
To  light  the  naked  spirit  brings ; 


Not  with  our  partial  eye  shall  scan, 
Not  with  our  pride  and   scorn  shali 

ban, 
The  spirit  of  our  brother  man! 


ST.   JOHN. 
1647. 

"  To  the  winds  give  our  banner. 

Bear  homeward  again!  " 
Cried  the  Lord  of  Acadia, 

Cried  Charles  of  Estienne  , 
From  the  prow  of  his  shallop 

He  gazed,  as  the  sun, 
From  its  bed  in  the  ocean, 

Streamed  up  the  St.  John. 

O'er  the  blue  western  waters 

That  shallop  had  passed, 
Where  the  mists  of  Penobscot 

Clung  damp  on  her  mast. 
St.  Saviour  had  looked 

On  the  heretic  sail, 
As  the  songs  of  the  Huguenot 

Rose  on  the  gale. 

The  pale,  ghostly  fathers 

Remembered  her  well, 
And  had  cursed  her  while  passing, 

With  taper  and  bell, 
But  the  men  of  Monhegan, 

Of  Papists  abhorred, 
Had  welcomed  and  feasted 

The  heretic  Lord. 

They  had  loaded  his  shallop 

With  dun-fish  and  ball, 
With  stores  for  his  larder, 

And  steel  for  his  wall. 
Pemequid,  from  her  bastions 

And  turrets  of  stone, 
Had  welcomed  his  coming 

With  banner  and  gun. 

And  the  prayers  of  the  elders 

Had  followed  his  way, 
As  homeward  he  glided, 

Down  Pentecost  Bay. 


ST.   JOHN. 


43 


O,  well  sped  La  Tour! 

For,  in  peril  and  pain, 
His  lady  kept  watch, 

For  his  coming  again. 

O'er  the  Isle  of  the  Pheasant 

The  morning  sun  shone, 
On  the  plane-trees  which  shaded 

The  shores  of  St.  John. 
"  Now,  why  from  yon  battlements 

Speaks  not  my  love ! 
Why  waves  there  no  banner 

My  fortress  above  ?  " 

Dark  and  wild,  from  his  deck 

St.  Estienne  gazed  about, 
On  fire-wasted  dwellings, 

And  silent  redoubt ; 
From  the  low,  shattered  walls 

Which  the  flame  had  o'errun, 
There  floated  no  banner, 

There  thundered  no  gun ! 

But  beneath  the  low  arch 

Of  its  doorway  there  stood 
A  pale  priest  of  Rome, 

In  his  cloak  and  his  hood. 
With  the  bound  of  a  lion, 

La  Tour  sprang  to  land, 
On  the  throat  of  the  Papist 

He  fastened  his  hand. 

"  Speak,  son  of  the  Woman 

Of  scarlet  and  sin! 
What  wolf  has  been  prowling 

My  castle  within?" 
From  the  grasp  of  the  soldier 

The  Jesuit  broke, 
Half  in  scorn,  half  in  sorrow, 

He  smiled  as  he  spoke  : 

"  No  wolf,  Lord  of  Estienne, 

Has  ravaged  thy  hall, 
But.  thy  red-handed  rival. 

With  fire,  steel,  and  ball! 
On  an  errand  of  mercy 

I  hitherward  came, 
While  the  walls  of  thy  castle 

Yet 'spouted  with  flame. 


"  Pentagoet's  dark  vessels 

Were  moored  in  the  bay, 
Grim  sea-lions,  roaring 

Aloud  for  their  prey." 
"  But  what  of  my  lady  ?  " 

Cried  Charles  of  Estienne  : 
"  On  the  shot-crumbled  turret 

Thy  lady  was  seen  : 

"  Half-veiled  in  the  smoke-cloud, 

Her  hand  grasped  thy  pennon, 
While  her  dark  tresses  swayed 

In  the  hot  breath  of  cannon! 
But  woe  to  the  heretic, 

Evermore  woe! 
When  the  son  of  the  church 

And  the  cross  is  his  foe! 

"  In  the  track  of  the  shell, 

In  the  path  of  the  ball, 
Pentagoet  swept  over 

The  breach  of  the  wall ! 
Steel  to  steel,  gun  to  gun, 

One  moment,  —  and  then 
Alone  stood  the  victor, 

Alone  with  his  men! 

"  Of  its  sturdy  defenders, 

Thy  lady  alone 
Saw  the  cross-blazoned  banner 

Float  over  St.  John.1' 
"  Let  the  dastard  look  to  it !  " 

Cried  fiery  Estienne, 
"Were  D'Aulney  King  Louis, 

I  'd  free  her  again !  " 

"  Alas  for  thy  lady ! 

No  service  from  thee 
Is  needed  by  her 

Whom  the  Lord  hath  set  free  : 
Nine  days,  in  stern  silence, 

Her  thraldom  she  bore, 
But  the  tenth  morning  came, 

And  Death  opened  her  door!11 

As  if  suddenly  smitten 
La  Tour  staggered  back  ; 

His  hand  grasped  his  sword  hilt, 
His  forehead  grew  black. 


44 


LEGENDARY. 


He  sprang  on  the  deck 

Of  his  shallop  again. 
"  We  cruise  now  for  vengeance ! 

Give  way!"  cried  Estienne. 

"  Massachusetts  shall  hear 

Of  the  Huguenot's  wrong, 
And  from  island  and  creekside 

Her  fishers  shall  throng! 
Pentagoet  shall  rue 

What  his  Papists  have  done, 
When  his  palisades  echo 

The  Puritan's  gun!" 

O,  the  loveliest  of  heavens 

Hung  tenderly  o'er  him, 
There  were  waves  in  the  sunshine, 

And  green  isles  before  him  : 
But  a  pale  hand  was  beckoning 

The  Huguenot  on ; 
And  in  blackness  and  ashes 

Behind  was  St.  John! 


PENTUCKET. 

1708. 

How  sweetly  on  the  wood-girt  town 
The  mellow  light  of  sunset  shone ! 
Each  small,  bright  lake,  whose  waters 

still 

Mirror  the  forest  and  the  hill, 
Reflected  from  its  waveless  breast 
The  beauty  of  a  cloudless  west, 
Glorious  as  if  a  glimpse  were  given 
Within  the  western  gates  of  heaven, 
Left,  by  the  spirit  of  the  star 
Of  sunset's  holy  hour,  ajar! 

Beside  the  river's  tranquil  flood 
The  dark   and    low-walled  dwellings 

stood, 

Where  many  a  rood  of  open  land 
Stretched  up  and  down  on  either  hand, 
With  corn-leaves  waving  freshly  green 
The  thick  and  blackened  stumps  be- 
tween. 

Behind,  unbroken,  deep  and  dread, 
The  wild,  untravelled  forest  spread, 


Back  to  those  mountains,  white  and 

cold, 

Of  which  the  Indian  trapper  told, 
Upon  whose  summits  never  yet 
Was  mortal  foot  in  safety  set. 

Quiet  and  calm,  without  a  fear 
Of  danger  darkly  lurking  near, 
The  weary  laborer  left  his  plough,  — 
The  milkmaid  carolled  by  her  cow,  — 
From    cottage   door   and    household 

hearth 
Rose    songs    of  praise,  or    tones    of 

mirth. 

At  length  the  murmur  died  away, 
And  silence  on  that  village  lay, — 
So  slept  Pompeii,  tower  and  hall, 
Ere  the  quick  earthquake  swallowed 

all, 

Undreaming  of  the  fiery  fate 
Which  made  its  dwellings  desolate! 

Hours  passed   away.    By   moonlight 

sped 

The  Merrimack  along  his  bed. 
Bathed  in  the  pallid  lustre,  stood 
Dark  cottage-wall  and  rock  and  wood, 
Silent,  beneath  that  tranquil  beam, 
As  the  hushed  grouping  of  a  dream. 
Yet  on  the  still  air  crept  a  sound,  — 
No  bark  of  fox,  nor  rabbit's  bound, 
Nor  stir  of  wings,  nor  waters  flowing, 
Nor  leaves  in  midnight  breezes  blow- 
ing. 

Was  that  the  tread  of  many  feet, 
Which    downward  from    the   hillside 

beat? 
What  forms  were  those  which  darkly 

stood 

Just  on  the  margin  of  the  wood?  — 
Charred  tree-stumps  in  the  moonlight 

dim, 

Or  paling  rude,  or  leafless  limb? 
No,  —  through  the  trees  fierce  eyeballs 

glowed 
Dark    human    forms    in    moonshine 

showed, 

Wild  from  their  native  wilderness, 
With  painted  limbs  and  battle-dress! 


THE  FAMILIST'S   HYMN. 


45 


A  yell  the  dead  might  wake  to  hear 
Swelled   on   the  night   air,    far  and 

clear,  — 

Then  smote  the  Indian  tomahawk 
On    crashing    door    and     shattering 

lock,— 

Then  rang  the  rifle-shot,  —  and  then 
The  shrill  death-scream  of  stricken 

men,  — 

Sank  the  red  axe  in  woman's  brain, 
And  childhood's  cry  arose  in  vain,  — 
Bursting  through   roof  and   window 

came, 

Red,  fast,  and  fierce,  the  kindled  flame; 
And  blended  fire  and  moonlight  glared 
On  still  dead  men  and  weapons  bared. 

The    morning   sun    looked    brightly 

through 

The  river  willows,  wet  with  dew. 
No  sound  of  combat  filled  the  air,  — 
No  shout  was  heard,  —  nor  gunshot 

there : 

Yet  still  the  thick  and  sullen  smoke 
From      smouldering      ruins      slowly 

broke ; 
And    on    the    greensward     many    a 

stain. 
And,    here    and    there,  the    mangled 

slain, 

Told  how  that  midnight  bolt  had  sped, 
Pentucket,  on  thy  fated  head! 

Even  now  the  villager  can  tell 
Where  Rolfe  beside  his  hearthstone 

fell, 

Still  show  the  door  of  wasting  oak, 
Through  which    the  fatal  death-shot 

broke, 

And  point  the  curious  stranger  where 
De  Rouville's  corse  lay  grim  and 

bare,  — 
Whose  hideous  head,   in    death  still 

feared, 

Bore  not  a  trace  of  hair  or  beard,  — 
And     still,    within     the    churchyard 

ground, 

Heaves  darkly  up  the  ancient  mound, 
Whose  grass-grown  surface  overlies 
The  victims  of  that  sacrifice. 


THE  FAMILIST'S  HYMN. 

FATHER!  to  thy  suffering  poor 

Strength   and  grace  and  faith  im- 
part, 
And  with  thy  own  love  restore 

Comfort  to  the  broken  heart! 
O,  the  failing  ones  confirm 

With  a  holier  strength  of  zeal!  — 
Give  thou  not  the  feeble  worm 

Helpless  to  the  spoiler's  heel ! 

Father!  for  thy  holy  sake 

We  are  spoiled  and  hunted  thus ; 
Joyful,  for  thy  truth  we  take 

Bonds  and  burthens  unto  us  : 
Poor,  and  weak,  and  robbed  of  all, 

Weary  with  our  daily  task, 
That  thy  truth  may  never  fall 

Through   our  weakness,  Lord,  we 
ask. 

Round  our  fired  and  wasted  homes 

Flits  the  forest-bird  unscared, 
And  at  noon  the  wild  beast  comes 

Where  our  frugal  meal  was  shared ; 
For  the  song  of  praises  there 

Shrieks  the  crow  the  livelong  day  ; 
For  the  sound  of  evening  prayer 

Howls  the  evil  beast  of  prey! 

Sweet  the  songs  we  loved  to  sing 

Underneath  thy  holy  sky, — 
Words  and  tones  that  used  to  bring 

Tears  of  joy  in  every  eye,  — 
Dear  the  wrestling  hours  of  prayer, 

When  we  gathered  knee  to  knee, 
Blameless  youth  and  hoary  hair, 

Bowed,  O  God,  alone  to  thee. 

As  thine  early  children,  Lord, 

Shared     their    wealth    and    daily 

bread, 
Even  so,  with  one  accord, 

We,  in  love,  each  other  fed. 
Not  with  us  the  miser's  hoard, 

Not  with  us  his  grasping  hand  ; 
Equal  round  a  common  board, 

Drew  our  meek  and  brother  band ! 


LEGENDARY. 


Safe  our  quiet  Eden  lay 

When   the  war-whoop  stirred  the 

land 
And  the  Indian  turned  away 

From  our  home  his  bloody  hand. 
Well  that  forest-ranger  saw, 

That  the  burthen  and  the  curse 
Of  the  white  man's  cruel  law 

Rested  also  upon  us. 

Torn  apart,  and  driven  forth 

To  our  toiling  hard  and  long, 
Father!  from  the  dust  of  earth 

Lift  we  still  our  grateful  song! 
Grateful,  —  that  in  bonds  we  share 

In  thy  love  which  maketh  free ; 
Joyful,  —  that  the  wrongs  we  bear, 

Draw  us  nearer,  Lord,  to  thee ! 

Grateful !  —  that  where'er  we  toil,  — 

By  Wachuset's  wooded  side, 
On  Nantucket's  sea- worn  isle, 

Or  by  wild  Neponset's  tide,  — 
Still,  in  spirit,  we  are  near, 

And  our  evening  hymns,  which  rise 
Separate  and  discordant  here, 

Meet  and  mingle  in  the  skies ! 

Let  the  scoffer  scorn  and  mock, 

Let  the  proud  and  evil  priest 
Rob  the  needy  of  his  flock, 

For  his  wine-cup  and  his  feast,  — 
Redden  not  thy  bolts  in  store 

Through  the  blackness  of  thy  skies  ? 
For  the  sighing  of  the  poor 

Wilt  Thou  not,  at  length,  arise? 

Worn  and  wasted,  oh!  how  long 

Shall  thy  trodden  poor  complain? 
In  thy  name  they  bear  the  wrong, 

In  thy  cause  the  bonds  of  pain ! 
Melt  oppression's  heart  of  steel, 

Let  the  haughty  priesthood  see, 
And  their  blinded  followers  feel. 

That  in  us  they  mock  at  Thee! 

In  thy  time,  O  Lord  of  hosts, 

Stretch  abroad  that  hand  to  save 

Which  of  old,  on  Egypt's  coasts, 
Smote  apart  the  Red  Sea's  wave! 


Lead  us  from  this  evil  land, 
From  the  spoiler  set  us  free, 

And  once  more  our  gathered  band, 
Heart  to  heart,  shall  worship  thee ! 


THE  FOUNTAIN. 

TRAVELLER  !  on  thy  journey  toiling 

By  the  swift  Powow, 
With  the  summer  sunshine  falling 

On  thy  heated  brow, 
Listen,  while  all  else  is  still, 
To  the  brooklet  from  the  hill. 

Wild  and  sweet  the  flowers  are  blowing 

By  that  streamlet's  side, 
And  a  greener  verdure  showing 

Where  its  waters  glide,  — 
Down  the  hill-slope  murmuring  on, 
Over  root  and  mossy  stone. 

Where  yon  oak  his  broad  arms  flingeth 

O'er  the  sloping  hill, 
Beautiful  and  freshly  springeth 

That  soft-flowing  rill, 
Through  its  dark  roots  wreathed  and 

bare, 
Gushing  up  to  sun  and  air. 

Brighter  waters  sparkled  never 

In  that  magic  well, 
Of  whose  gift  of  life  forever 

Ancient  legends  tell,  — 
In  the  lonely  desert  wasted, 
And  by  mortal  lip  untasted. 

Waters  which  the  proud  Castilian 
Sought  with  longing  eyes, 

Underneath  the  bright  pavilion 
Of  the  Indian  skies  ; 

Where  his  forest  pathway  lay 

Through  the  blooms  of  Florida. 

Years  ago  a  lonely  stranger, 

With  the  dusky  brow 
Of  the  outcast  forest-ranger, 

Crossed  the  swift  Powow ; 
And  betook  him  to  the  rill 
And  the  oak  upon  the  hill. 


THE   EXILES. 


O'er  his  face  of  moody  sadness 

For  an  instant  shone 
Something  like  a  gleam  of  gladness, 

As  he  stooped  him  down 
To  the  fountain's  grassy  side, 
And  his  eager  thirst  supplied. 

With  the  oak  its  shadow  throwing 

O'er  his  mossy  seat, 
And  the  cool,  sweet  waters  flowing 

Softly  at  his  feet, 
Closely  by  the  fountain's  rim 
That  lone  Indian  seated  him. 

Autumn's  earliest  frost  had  given 

To  the  woods  below 
Hues  of  beauty,  such  as  heaven 

Lendeth  to  its  bow  ; 
And  the  soft  breeze  from  the  west 
Scarcely  broke  their  dreamy  rest. 

Far  behind  was  Ocean  striving 

With  his  chains  of  sand  ; 
Southward,  sunny  glimpses  giving, 

'Tvvixt  the  swells  of  land, 
Of  its  calm  and  silvery  track, 
Rolled  the  tranquil  Merrimack. 

Over  village,  wood,  and  meadow 

Gazed  that  stranger  man, 
Sadly,  till  the  twilight  shadow 

Over  all  things  ran, 
Save  where  spire  and  westward  pane 
Flashed  the  sunset  back  again. 

Gazing  thus  upon  the  dwelling 

.    Of  his  warrior  sires, 

Where  no  lingering  trace  was  telling 

Of  their  wigwam  fires, 
Who  the  gloomy  thoughts  might  know 
Of  that  wandering  child  of  woe  ? 

Naked  lay,  in  sunshine  glowing, 

Hills  that  once  had  stood 
Down  their  sides  the  shadows  throw- 
ing 

Of  a  mighty  wood, 
Where  the  deer  his  covert  kept, 
And  the  eagle's  pinion  swept! 


Where  the  birch  canoe  had  glided 

Down  the  swift  Powow, 
Dark  and  gloomy  bridges  strided 

Those  clear  waters  now  ; 
And  where  once  the  beaver  swam, 
Jarred  the  wheel  and  frowned  the  dam. 


and  hammer's  ringing 


For  the  wood-bird's  merry  singing, 

And  the  hunter's  cheer, 
Iron  clan^ 

Smote  upon  his  ear  ; 
And  the  thick  and  sullen  smoke 
From  the  blackened  forges  broke. 

Could  it  be  his  fathers  ever 

Loved  to  linger  here  ? 
These    bare    hills,    this     conquered 
river,  — 

Could  they  hold  them  dear, 
With  their  native  loveliness 
Tamed  and  tortured  into  this? 

Sadly,  as  the  shades  of  even 

Gathered  o'er  the  hill, 
While  the  western  half  of  heaven 

Blushed  with  sunset  still, 
From  the  fountain's  mossy  seat 
Turned  the  Indian's  weary  feet. 

Year  on  year  hath  flown  forever, 

But  he  came  no  more 
To  the  hillside  or  the  river 

Where  he  came  before. 
But  the  villager  can  tell 
Of  that  strange  man's  visit  well. 

And  the  merry  children,  laden 
With  their  fruits  or  flowers,  — 

Roving  boy  and  laughing  maiden, 
In  their  school-day  hours, 

Love  the  simple  tale  to  tell 

Of  the  Indian  and  his  well. 


THE    EXILES. 
1660. 

THE  good  man  sat  beside  his  door 
One  sultry  afternoon, 


LEGENDARY. 


With   his  young  wife   singing  at  his 

side 
An  old  and  goodly  tune. 

A  glimmer  of  heat  was  in  the  air ; 

The  dark  green  woods  were  still ; 
And  the  skirts   of  a  heavy  thunder- 
cloud 

Hung  over  the  western  hill. 

Black,  thick,  and  vast  arose  that  cloud 

Above  the  wilderness, 
As  some  dark  world  from  upper  air 

Were  stooping  over  this. 

At  times  the  solemn  thunder  pealed, 

And  all  was  still  again, 
Save  a  low  murmur  in  the  air 

Of  coming  wind  and  rain. 

Just  as  the  first  big  rain-drop  fell, 

A  weary  stranger  came, 
And  stood  before  the  farmer's  door, 

With  travel  soiled  and  lame. 

Sad  seemed  he,  yet  sustaining  hope 

Was  in  his  quiet  glance, 
And  peace,  like  autumn's  moonlight, 
clothed 

His  tranquil  countenance. 

A  look,  like  that  his  Master  wore 

In  Pilate's  council-hall : 
It  told  of  wrongs,  —  but  of  a  love 

Meekly  forgiving  all. 

"  Friend !   wilt  thou   give  me  shelter 
here?" 

The  stranger  meekly  said  ; 
And,  leaning  on  his  oaken  staff, 

The  goodman's  features  read. 

"  My  life  is  hunted,  —  evil  men 
Are  following  in  my  track  ; 

The  traces  of  the  torturer's  whip 
Are  on  my  aged  back. 

"  And  much,  I  fear,  't  will  peril  thee 
Within  thy  doors  to  take 


A  hunted  seeker  of  the  Truth, 
Oppressed  for  conscience'  sake." 

O,  kindly  spoke  the  goodman's  wife,  — - 
"  Come  in,  old  man !  "  quoth  she,  — 

"  We  will  not  leave  thee  to  the  storm, 
Whoever  thou  mayst  be." 

Then  came  the  aged  wanderer  in, 
And  silent  sat  him  down  ; 

While  all  within  grew  dark  as  night 
Beneath  the  storm-cloud's  frown. 

But  while  the  sudden  lightning's  blaze 
Filled  every  cottage  nook, 

And  with  the  jarring  thunder-roll 
The  loosened  casements  shook, 

A  heavy  tramp  of  horses'  feet 
Came  sounding  up  the  lane, 

And  half  a  score  of  horse,  or  more, 
Came  plunging  through  the  rain. 

"  Now,    Goodman    Macey,   ope    thy 
door,  — 

We  would  not  be  house-breakers ; 
A  rueful  deed  thou  'st  done  this  day, 

In  harboring  banished  Quakers." 

Out  looked  the  cautious  goodman  then, 
With  much  of  fear  and  awe, 

For  there,  with    broad  wig   drenched 

with  rain, 
The  parish  priest  he  saw. 

"Open   thy  door,  thou  wicked   man, 

And  let  thy  pastor  in, 
And  give  God  thanks,  if  forty  stripes 

Repay  thy  deadly  sin." 

"  What  seek  ye  ?  "  quoth   the   good- 
man,  — 

"  The  stranger  is  my  guest ; 
He  is  worn   with    toil   and   grievous 

wrong,  — 
Pray  let  the  old  man  rest." 

"  Now,  out  upon  thee,  canting  knave!" 
And  strong  hands  shook  the  door, 


THE   EXILES. 


49 


"  Believe    me,    Macey,"    quoth     the 

priest,  — 
"  Thou 'It  rue  thy  conduct  sore." 

Then  kindled  Macey's  eye  of  fire : 
"  No  priest  who  walks  the  earth, 

Shall  pluck  away  the  stranger-guest 
Made  welcome  to  my  hearth." 

Down  from  his  cottage  wall  he  caught 
The  matchlock,  hotly  tried 

At  Preston-pans  and  Marston-moor, 
By  fiery  Ireton's  side  ; 

Where  Puritan,  and  Cavalier, 

With  shout  and  psalm  contended  ; 

And   Rupert's    oath,  and  Cromwell's 

prayer, 
With  battle-thunder  blended. 

Up  rose  the  ancient  stranger  then : 

"  My  spirit  is  not  free 
To  bring  the  wrath  and  violence 

Of  evil  men  on  thee  : 

"And  for  thyself,  I  pray  forbear,— 
Bethink  thee  of  thy  Lord, 

Who  healed  again  the  smitten  ear, 
And  sheathed  his  follower's  sword. 

"  I  go,  as  to  the  slaughter  led  : 
Friends  of  the  poor,  farewell!" 

Beneath  his  hand  the  oaken  door, 
Back  on  its  hinges  fell. 

"  Come  forth,  old  graybeard,  yea  and 
nay  "  ; 

The  reckless  scoffers  cried, 
As  to  a  horseman's  saddle-bow 

The  old  man's  arms  were  tied. 

And  of  his  bondage  hard  and  long 

In  Boston's  crowded  jail, 
Where  suffering  woman's  prayer  was 
heard, 

With  sickening  childhood's  wail, 

It  suits  not  with  our  tale  to  tell : 
Those  scenes  have  passed  away,  — 
,E 


Let  the  dim  shadows  of  the  past 
Brood  o'er  that  evil  day. 

"Ho,    sheriff!"    quoth    the     ardent 
priest,  — 

"  Take  Goodman  Macey  too  ; 
The  sin  of  this  day's  heresy, 

His  back  or  purse  shall  rue." 

"Now,  goodwife,  haste  thee!"  Macey 
cried, 

She  caught  his  manly  arm :  — 
Behind,  the  parson  urged  pursuit, 

With  outcry  and  alarm. 

Ho!    speed    the     Maceys,    neck    or 
naught,  — 

The  river-course  was  near:  — 
The  plashing  on  its  pebbled  shore 

Was  music  to  their  ear. 

A    gray    rock,    tasselled    o'er    with 
birch, 

Above  the  waters  hung, 
And  at  its  base,  with  every  wave, 

A  small  light  wherry  swung. 

A  leap  —  they  gain   the  boat  —  and 

there 

The  goodman  wields  his  oar : 
"111    luck    betide     them     all,"— he 

cried,  — 
"  The  laggards  upon  the  shore." 

Down   through   the   crashing  under- 
wood, 

The  burly  sheriff  came  :  — 
"  Stand,    Goodman     Macey,  —  yield 

thyself; 
Yield  in  the  King's  own  name." 

"Now     out     upon     thy     hangman's 
face!" 

Bold  Macey  answered  then, — 
"  Whip  women,  on  the  village  green, 

But  meddle  not  with  men" 

The     priest    came    panting    to    the 

shore,  — 
His  grave  cocked  hat  was  gone ; 


5° 


LEGENDARY. 


Behind    him,   like   some   owl's  nest, 

hung 
His  wig  upon  a  thorn. 

"  Come     back,  —  come    back ! "    the 

parson  cried, 

"The  church's  curse  beware.1' 
"  Curse,  an1  thou  wilt,1'  said  Macey, 

"  but 
Thy  blessing  prithee  spare." 

"Vile    scoffer!"     cried    the    baffled 

priest,  — 

"  Thou  'It  yet  the  gallows  see." 
"  Who  1s  born  to  be  hanged,  will  not 

be  drowned," 
Quoth  Macey,  merrily ; 

u  And  so,  sir  sheriff  and  priest,  good 
by! " 

He  bent  him  to  his  oar, 
And  the  small  boat  glided  quietly 

From  the  twain  upon  the  shore. 

Now  in  the  west,  the  heavy  clouds 
Scattered  and  fell  asunder, 

While  feebler  came  the  rush  of  rain, 
And  fainter  growled  the  thunder. 

And  through  the  broken  clouds,  the 
sun 

Looked  out  serene  and  warm, 
Painting  its  holy  symbol-light 

Upon  the  passing  storm. 

O,  beautiful!  that  rainbow  span, 
O'er  dim  Crane-neck  was  bended ;  — 

One  bright  foot  touched  the  eastern 

hills, 
And  one  with  ocean  blended. 

By  green  Pentucket's  southern  slope 
The  small  boat  glided  fast,  — 

The  watchers  of  "the  Block-house1' 

saw 
The  strangers  as  they  passed. 

That  night  a  stalwart  garrison 
Sat  shaking  in  their  shoes, 


To  hear  the  dip  of  Indian  oars, — 
The  glide  of  birch  canoes. 

The  fisher- wives  of  Salisbury, 

(The  men  were  all  away,) 
Looked  out  to  see  the  stranger  oar 

Upon  their  waters  play. 

Deer-Island's     rocks     and     fir-trees 

threw 

Their  sunset-shadows  o'er  them, 
And   Newbury's   spire  and  weather- 
cock 
Peered  o'er  the  pines  before  them. 

Around   the   Black   Rocks,  on   their 

left, 

The  marsh  lay  broad  and  green ; 
And  on  their  right,  with  dwarf  shrubs 

crowned, 
Plum  Island's  hills  were  seen. 

With  skilful  hand  and  wary  eye 
The  harbor-bar  was  crossed  ;  — 

A  plaything  of  the  restless  wave, 
The  boat  on  ocean  tossed. 

The  glory  of  the  sunset  heaven 

On  land  and  water  lay, — 
On  the  steep  hills  of  Agawam, 

On  cape,  and  bluff,  and  bay. 

They  passed  the  gray  rocks  of  Cape 
Ann, 

And  Gloucester's  harbor-bar ; 
The  watch-fire  of  the  garrison 

Shone  like  a  setting  star. 

How  brightly  broke  the  morning 

On  Massachusetts  Bay! 
Blue  wave,  and  bright  green  island, 

Rejoicing  in  the  day. 

On  passed  the  bark  in  safety 

Round  isle  and  headland  steep,  — 

No  tempest  broke  above  them, 
No  fog-cloud  veiled  the  deep. 

Far  round  the  bleak  and  stormy  Cape 
The  vent'rous  Macey  passed, 


THE  NEW  WIFE  AND   THE   OLD. 


And  on  Nantucket's  naked  isle, 
Drew  up  his  boat  at  last. 

And  how,  in  log-built  cabin, 

They     braved     the     rough     sea- 
weather  ; 

And  there,  in  peace  and  quietness, 
Went  down  life's  vale  together : 

How  others  drew  around  them, 
And  how  their  fishing  sped, 

Until  to  every  wind  of  heaven 
Nantuckefs  sails  were  spread  ; 

How  pale  Want  alternated 
With  Plenty's  golden  smile ; 

Behold,  is  it  not  written 
In  the  annals  of  the  isle? 

And  yet  that  isle  remaineth 

A  refuge  of  the  free, 
As  when  true-hearted  Macey 

Beheld  it  from  the  sea. 

Free  as  the  winds  that  winnow 
Her  shrubless  hills  of  sand, — 

Free  as  the  waves  that  batter 
Along  her  yielding  land. 

Than  hers,  at  duty's  summons, 

No  loftier  spirit  stirs, — 
Nor  falls  o'er  human  suffering 

A  readier  tear  than  hers. 

God  bless  the  sea-beat  island !  — 

And  grant  forevermore, 
That  charity  and  freedom  dwell, 

As  now  upon  her  shore! 


THE    NEW    WIFE    AND     THE 
OLD. 

DARK  the  halls,  and  cold  the  feast,—- 
Gone     the     bridemaids,     gone     the 

priest : 

All  is  over,  —  all  is  done, 
Twain  of  yesterday  are  one ! 
Blooming  girl  and  manhood  gray, 
Autumn  in  the  arms  of  May! 


Hushed  within  and  hushed  without, 

Dancing  feet  and  wrestlers'  shout ; 

Dies  the  bonfire  on  the  hill ; 

All  is  dark  and  all  is  still, 

Save  the  starlight,  save  the  breeze 

Moaning     through     the     graveyard 

trees ; 

And  the  great  sea-waves  below, 
Pulse  of  the  midnight  beating  slow. 

From  the  brief  dream  of  a  bride 
She  hath  wakened,  at  his  side. 
With  half-uttered  shriek  and  start,  — 
Feels  she  not  his  beating  heart? 
And  the  pressure  of  his  arm, 
And  his  breathing  near  and  warm? 

Lightly  from  the  bridal  bed 
Springs  that  fair  dishevelled  head, 
And  a  feeling,  new,  intense, 
Half  of  shame,  half  innocence, 
Maiden  fear  and  wonder  speaks 
Through     her     lips     and    changing 
cheeks. 

From  the  oaken  mantle  glowing 
Faintest  light  the  lamp  is  throwing 
On  the  mirror's  antique  mould, 
High-backed  chair,  and  wainscot  old, 
And,  through  faded  curtains  stealing, 
His  dark  sleeping  face  revealing. 

Listless  lies  the  strong  man  there, 
Silver-streaked  his  careless  hair ; 
Lips  of  love  have  left  no  trace 
On  that  hard  and  haughty  face ; 
And  that  forehead's  knitted  thought 
Love's  soft  hand  hath  not  unwrought. 

"  Yet,"  she  sighs,  "  he  loves  me  well, 
More  than  these  calm  lips  will  tell. 
Stooping  to  my  lowly  state, 
Lie  hath  made  me  rich  and  great, 
And  I  bless  him,  though  he  be 
Hard  and  stern  to  all  save  me! " 

While  she  speaketh,  falls  the  light 
O'er  her  fingers  small  and  white ; 
Gold  and  gem,  and  costly  ring 


LEGENDARY. 


Back  the  timid  lustre  fling, — 
Love's  selectest  gifts,  and  rare, 
His  proud  hand  had  fastened  there. 

Gratefully  she  marks  the  glow 
From  those  tapering  lines  of  snow ; 
Fondly  o'er  the  sleeper  bending 
His  black  hair  with  golden  blending, 
In  her  soft  and  light  caress, 
Cheek  and  lip  together  press. 

Ha!  —  that  start  of  horror!  — Why 
That  wild  stare  and  wilder  cry, 
Full  of  terror,  full  of  pain? 
Is  there  madness  in  her  brain? 
Hark!  that  gasping,  hoarse  and  low, 
"  Spare  me,  —  spare  me, — let  me  go ! " 

God  have  mercy!  —  Icy  cold 
Spectral  hands  her  own  enfold, 
Drawing  silently  from  them 
Love's  fair  gifts  of  gold  and  gem, 
"  Waken !  save  me !  "  still  as  death 
At  her  side  he  slumbereth. 

Ring  and  bracelet  all  are  gone, 

And  that  ice-cold  hand  withdrawn ; 

But  she  hears  a  murmur  low, 

Full  of  sweetness,  full  of  woe, 

Half  a  sigh  and  half  a  moan  : 

"  Fear  not !  give  the  dead  her  own ! " 

Ah ! — the  dead  wife's  voice  she  knows ! 
That  cold  hand,  whose  pressure  froze, 
Once  in  warmest  life  had  borne 
Gem  and  band  her  own  hath  worn. 
"Wake  thee!  wake   thee!"     Lo,  his 

eyes 
Open  with  a  dull  surprise. 

In  his  arms  the  strong  man  folds  her, 
Closer  to  his  breast  he  holds  her ; 
Trembling  limbs  his  own  are  meeting, 
And  he  feels  her  heart's  quick  beating  : 
"Nay,  my  dearest,  why  this  fear?" 
"Hush!"   she   saith,    "the    dead    is 
here!" 

"  Nay,  a  dream,  —  an  idle  dream." 
But  before  the  lamp's  pale  gleam 


Tremblingly  her  hand  she  raises,  — 
There  no  more  the  diamond  blazes, 
Clasp  of  pearl,  or  ring  of  gold,  — 
"Ah!"    she   sighs,    "her    hand   was 
cold!" 

Broken  words  of  cheer  he  saith, 
But  his  dark  lip  quivereth, 
And  as  o'er  the  past  he  thinketh, 
From  his  young  wife's  arms  he  shrink- 

eth; 

Can  those  soft  arms  round  him  lie, 
Underneath  his  dead  wife's  eye? 

She  her  fair  young  head  can  rest 
Soothed  and  childlike  on  his  breast, 
And  in  trustful  innocence 
Draw    new    strength    and     courage 

thence ; 

He,  the  proud  man,  feels  within 
But  the  cowardice  of  sin ! 

She  can  murmur  in  her  thought 
Simple  prayers  her  mother  taught, 
And  His  blessed  angels  call, 
Whose  great  love  is  over  all ; 
He,  alone,  in  prayerless  pride, 
Meets  the  dark  Past  at  her  side ! 

One,  who  living  shrank  with  dread 
From  his  look,  or  word,  or  tread, 
Unto  whom  her  early  grave 
Was  as  freedom  to  the  slave, 
Moves  him  at  this  midnight  hour, 
With  the  dead's  unconscious  power ! 

Ah,  the  dead,  the  unforgot! 

From  their  solemn  homes  of  thought, 

Where  the  cypress  shadows  blend 

Darkly  over  foe  and  friend, 

Or  in  love  or  sad  rebuke, 

Back  upon  the  living  look. 

And  the  tenderest  ones  and  weakest, 
Who   their   wrongs   have   borne  the 

meekest, 

Lifting  from  those  dark,  still  places, 
Sweet  and  sad-remembered  faces, 
O'er  the  guilty  hearts  behind 
An  unwitting  triumph  find. 


TOUSSAINT   L'OUVERTURE. 


53 


VOICES    OF    FREEDOM. 
FROM  1833  TO  1848. 


TOUSSAINT   L'OUVERTURE. 

'TWAS   night.     The   tranquil  moon- 
light smile 
With   which'    Heaven    dreams    of 

Earth,  shed  down 
Its  beauty  on  the  Indian  isle, — 
On   broad   green   field  and  white- 
walled  town ; 

And  inland  waste  of  rock  and  wood, 
In  searching  sunshine,  wild  and  rude, 
Rose,   mellowed   through    the    silver 

gleam, 

Soft  as  the  landscape  of  a  dream, 
All  motionless  and  dewy  wet, 
Tree,  vine,  and  flower  in  shadow  met : 
The  myrtle  with  its  snowy  bloom, 
Crossing     the    nightshade's    solemn 

gloom,  — 

The  white  cecropia's  silver  rind 
Relieved  by  deeper  green  behind, — 
The  orange  with  its  fruit  of  gold,  — 
The  lithe  paullinia's  verdant  fold,  — 
The  passion-flower,  with  symbol  holy, 
Twining  its  tendrils  long  and  lowly,  — 
The  rhexias  dark,  and  cassia  tall, 
And  proudly  rising  over  all, 
The  kingly  palm's  imperial  stem, 
Crowned  with  its  leafy  diadem, 
Star-like,     beneath     whose     sombre 

shade, 

The  fiery-winged  cucullo  played ! 
Yes,  —  lovely  was  thine  aspect,  then, 

Fair  island  of  the  Western  Sea! 
Lavish  of  beauty,  even  when 
Thy  brutes  were  happier  than  thy  men, 

For  they,  at  least,  were  free ! 
Regardless  of  thy  glorious  clime, 

Unmindful  of  thy  soil  of  flowers, 
The  toiling  negro  sighed,  that  Time 

No  faster  sped  his  hours. 
For.  by  the  dewy  moonlight  still, 
He  fed  the  weary-turning  mill, 
Or  bent  him  in  the  chill  morass, 
To  pluck  the  long  and  tangled  grass, 


And  hear  above  his  scar-worn  back 
The  heavy  slave-whip's  frequent  crack ; 
While  in  his  heart  one  evil  thought 
In  solitary  madness  wrought, 
One  baleful  fire  surviving  still 

The   quenching   of    the    immortal 
mind, 

One  sterner  passion  of  his  kind, 
Which  even  fetters  could  not  kill,  — 
The  savage  hope,  to  deal,  erelong, 
A  vengeance  bitterer  than  his  wrong! 

Hark  to  that  cry!  —  long,  loud,  and 

shrill, 

From  field  and  forest,  rock  and  hill, 
Thrilling  and  horrible  it  rang, 

Around,  beneath,  above ;  — 
The  wild  beast  from  his  cavern  sprang, 

The  wild  bird  from  her  grove! 
Nor  fear,  nor  joy,  nor  agony 
Were  mingled  in  that  midnight  cry ; 
But  like  the  lion's  growl  of  wrath, 
When  falls  that  hunter  in  his  path 
Whose  barbed  arrow,  deeply  set, 
Is  rankling  in  his  bosom  yet, 
It  told  of  hate,  full,  deep,  and  strong, 
Of  vengeance  kindling  out  of  wrong ; 
It  was  as  if  the  crimes  of  years  — 
The  unrequited  toil,  the  tears, 
The  shame  and  hate,  which  liken  well 
Earth's  garden  to  the  nether  hell  — 
Had  found  in  nature's  self  a  tongue, 
On  which  the  gathered  horror  hung ; 
As  if  from  cliff,  and  stream,  and  glen 
Burst  on  the  startled  ears  of  men 
That  voice  which  rises  unto  God, 
Solemn  and  stern,  —  the  cry  of  blood ! 
It  ceased,  —  and   all  was   still  once 

more, 

Save  ocean  chafing  on  his  shore, 
The  sighing  of  the  wind  between 
The  broad  banana's  leaves  of  green, 
Or  bough  by  restless  plumage  shook, 
Or    murmuring    voice    of    mountain 
brook. 


54 


VOICES   OF   FREEDOM. 


Brief  was  the  silence.     Once  again 
Pealed   to    the   skies    that    frantic 

yell, 
Glowed  on  the  heavens  a  fiery  stain, 

And  flashes  rose  and  fell ; 
And  painted  on  the  blood-red  sky, 
Dark,   naked   arms   were   tossed    on 

high ; 
And.   round  the  white  man's   lordly 

hall, 
Trod,  fierce  and  free,  the  brute  he 

made ; 

And  those  who  crept  along  the  wall, 
And  answered  to  his  lightest  call 

With  more  than  spaniel  dread,  — 
The  creatures  of  his  lawless  beck,  — 
Were  trampling  on  his  very  neck! 
And  on  the  night-air,  wild  and  clear, 
Rose   woman's  shriek    of  more  than 

fear; 
For  bloodied  arms   were  round  her 

thrown, 
And  dark  cheeks  pressed  against  her 


Then,  injured  Afric!  —  for  the  shame 
Of    thy   own    daughters,    vengeance 

came 

Full  on  the  scornful  hearts  of  those, 
Who   mocked   thee  in  thy  nameless 

woes, 

And  to  thy  hapless  children  gave 
One  choice,  —  pollution  or  the  grave! 
Where  then  was  he  whose  fiery  zeal 
Had   taught   the   trampled   heart    to 

feel, 

Until  despair  itself  grew  strong, 
And   vengeance   fed   its    torch    from 

wrong? 

Now,  when  the  thunderbolt  is  speed- 
ing ; 
Now.    when    .oppression's     heart    is 

bleeding ; 
Now,  when  the  latent  curse  of  Time 

Is  raining  down  in  fire  and  blood,— 
That  curse  which,  through  long  years 

of  crime, 
Has    gathered,    drop    by    drop,    its 

flood,— 
Why  strikes  he  not,  the  foremost  one, 


Where  murder's   sternest   deeds   are 
done? 

He  stood  the  aged  palms  beneath, 
That   shadowed   o'er    his    humble 

door, 

Listening,  with  half-suspended  breath, 
To    the    wild    sounds    of    fear    and 

death,— 

Toussaint  1'Ouvertuf  e ! 
What  marvel  that  his  heart  beat  high ! 
The    blow   for   freedom   had  been 

given, 

And  blood  had  answered  to  the  cry 
Which  Earth  sent  up  to  Heaven ! 
What  marvel  that  a  fierce  delight 
Smiled  grimly  o'er  his  brow  of  night,  — 
As    groan   and    shout   and    bursting 

flame 
Tolcl   where    the    midnight    tempest 

came, 

With  blood  and  fire  along  its  van, 
And  death  behind!  —  he  was  a  Man! 

Yes,   dark-souled   chieftain!  —  if    the 
light 

Of  mild  Religion's  heavenly  ray 
Unveiled  not  to  thy  mental  sight 

The  lowlier  and  the  purer  way, 
In  which  the  Holy  Sufferer  trod, 

Meekly  amidst  the  sons  of  crime, — 
That  calm  reliance  upon  God 

For  justice  in  his  own  good  time, — 
That  gentleness  to  which  belongs 
Forgiveness  for  its  many  wrongs, 
Even  as  the  primal  martyr,  kneeling 
For  mercy  on  the  evil-dealing, — 
Let  not  the  favored  white  man  name 
Thy  stern  appeal,  with  words  of  blame. 
Has  he  not,  with  the  light  of  heaven 

Broadly    around    him,    made    the 

same  ? 
Yea,  on  his  thousand  war-fields  striven, 

And  gloried  in  his  ghastly  shame?  — 
Kneeling  amidst  his  brother's  blood, 
To  offer  mockery  unto  God, 
As  if  the  High  and  Holy  One 
Could    smile    on    deeds    of    murder 

done! — 
As  if  a  human  sacrifice 


TOUSSAINT   L'OUVERTURE. 


55 


Were  purer  in  his  Holy  eyes, 
Though  offered  up  by  Christian  hands, 
Than  the  foul  rites  of  Pagan  lands! 

****** 

Sternly,  amidst  his  household  band, 
His  carbine  grasped  within  his  hand, 
The  white  man  stood,  prepared  and 

still, 

Waiting  the  shock  of  maddened  men, 

Unchained,  and  fierce  as  tigers,  when 

The  horn  winds  through  their  cav- 

erned  hill. 

And  one  was  weeping  in  his  sight,  — 
The  sweetest  flower  of  all  the  isle,  — 
The    bride   who    seemed  but  yester- 
night 

Love's  fair  embodied  smile. 
And,  clinging  to  her  trembling  knee 
Looked  up  the  form  of  infancy, 
With  tearful  glance  in  either  face 
The  secret  of  its  fear  to  trace. 

"  Ha !  stand  or  die! "  The  white  man's 

eye 

His  steady  musket  gleamed  along, 
As  a  tall  Negro  hastened  nigh, 

With  fearless  step  and  strong. 
"What,  ho,  Toussaint!"     A  moment 

more, 

His  shadow  crossed  the  lighted  floor. 
"  Away ! "  he  shouted  ;  "  fly  with  me,  — 
The  white  man's  bark  is  on  the  sea ;  — 
Her  sails  must  catch  the  seaward  wind, 
For  sudden  vengeance  sweeps  behind. 
Our  brethren  from  their  graves  have 

spoken, 
The  yoke  is  spurned,  —  the  chain  is 

broken  ; 

On  all  the  hills  our  fires  are  glowing,  — 
Through  all  the  vales  red  blood  is 

flowing! 
No  more  the   mocking   White  shall 

rest 

His  foot  upon  the  Negro's  breast ; 
No  more,  at  morn  or  eve,  shall  drip 
The  warm    blood   from   the    driver's 

whip : 
Yet,  though  Toussaint  has  vengeance 

sworn 


For   all    the   wrongs    his    race   have 

borne,  — 

Though  for  each  drop  of  Negro  blood 
The  white  man's  veins  shall  pour 

a  flood ; 

Not  all  alone  the  sense  of  ill 
Around  his  heart  is  lingering  still, 
Nor  deeper  can  the  white  man  feel 
The  generous  warmth  of  grateful  zeal. 
Friends  of  the  Negro!  fly  with  me, — 
The  path  is  open  to  the  sea : 
Away,    for    life!"  —  He    spoke,    and 

pressed 

The  young  child  to  his  manly  breast, 
As,  headlong,  through  the  cracking 

cane, 

Down  swept  the  dark  insurgent  train, — 
Drunken  and  grim,  with  shout  and  yell 
Howled  through  the  dark,  like  sounds 

from  hell. 

Far  out,  in  peace,  the  white  man's  sail 
Swayed  free  before  the  sunrise  gale. 
Cloud-like  that  island  hung  afar, 

Along  the  bright  horizon's  verge, 
O'er  which  the  curse  of  servile  war 

Rolled    its    red    torrent,   surge   on 

surge ; 

And    he  —  the    Negro    champion  — 
where 

In  the  fierce  tumult  struggled  he? 
.Go  trace  him  by  the  fiery  glare 
Of  dwellings  in  the  midnight  air, — 
The  yells  of  triumph  and  despair,— 
,  The  streams  that  crimson  to  the  sea! 
Sleep  calmly  in  thy  dungeon-tomb, 

Beneath  Besancon's  alien  sky, 
Dark    Haytien!  —  for  the  time  shall 

come, 

Yea,  even  now  is  nigh,  — 
When,  everywhere,  thy  name  shall  be 
Redeemed  from  colons  infamy  ; 
And  men  shall  learn  to  speak  of  thee, 
As  one  of  earth's  great  spirits,  born 
In  servitude,  and  nursed  in  scorn, 
Casting  aside  the  weary  weight 
And  fetters  of  its  low  estate, 
In  that  strong  majesty  of  soul 

Which  knows  no  color,  tongue,  or 
clime,  — 


VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 


Which  still   hath   spurned   the   base 

control 

Of  tyrants  through  all  time! 
Far  other  hands  than  mine  may  wreath 
The  laurel  round  thy  brow  of  death, 
And  speak  thy  praise,  as  one  whose 

word 

A  thousand  fiery  spirits  stirred,  — 
Who  crushed  his  foeman  as  a  worm,  — 
Whose   step   on    human    hearts    fell 

firm :  — 

Be  mine  the  better  task  to  find 
A  tribute  for  thy  lofty  mind, 
Amidst    whose     gloomy    vengeance 

shone 

Some  milder  virtues  all  thine  own,  — 
Some  gleams  of  feeling  pure  and  warm, 
Like  sunshine  on  a  sky  of  storm,  — 
Proofs  that  the  Negro's  heart  retains 
Some  nobleness  amidst  its  chains,  — 
That  kindness  to  the  wronged  is  never 

Without  its  excellent  reward,  — 
Holy  to  human-kind,  and  ever 
Acceptable  to  God. 


THE   SLAVE-SHIPS. 

"  That  fatal,  that  perfidious  bark, 
Built  i'  the  eclipse,  and  rigged  with  curses 
dark." 

Milton's  Lycidas. 

"  ALL  ready?  "  cried  the  captain  ; 

"  Ay,  ay!  "  the  seamen  said  ; 
"  Heave  up  the  worthless  lubbers,  — 

The  dying  and  the  dead." 
Up  from  the  slave-ship's  prison 

Fierce,  bearded  heads  were  thrust : 
"Now  let  the  sharks  look  to  it, — 

Toss  up  the  dead  ones  first! " 

Corpse  after  corpse  came  up,  — 

Death  had  been  busy  there ; 
Where  every  blow  is  mercy, 

Why  should  the  spoiler  spare? 
Corpse  after  corpse  they  cast 

Sullenly  from  the  ship, 
Yet  bloody  with  the  traces 

Of  fetter-link  and  whip. 


Gloomily  stood  the  captain, 

With  his  arms  upon  his  breast, 
With  his  cold  brow  sternly  knotted, 

And  his  iron  lip  compressed. 
"  Are  all  the  dead  dogs  over? " 

Growled  through  that  matted  lip,  — • 
"  The  blind  ones  are  no  better, 

Let's  lighten  the  good  ship." 

Hark !  from  the  ship's  dark  bosom, 

The  very  sounds  of  hell! 
The  ringing  clank  of  iron,  — 

The  maniac's  short,  sharp  yell!  — 
The  hoarse,  low  curse,  throat-stifled,  — 

The  starving  infant's  moan,  — 
The  horror  of  a  breaking  heart 

Poured  through  a  mother's  groan. 

Up  from  that  loathsome  prison 

The  stricken  blind  ones  came : 
Below,  had  all  been  darkness, — 

Above,  was  still  the  same. 
Yet  the  holy  breath  of  heaven 

Was  sweetly  breathing  there, 
And  the  heated  brow  of  fever 

Cooled  in  the  soft  sea  air. 

"Overboard  with  them,  shipmates!" 

Cutlass  and  dirk  were  plied ; 
Fettered  and  blind,  one  after  one, 

Plunged  down  the  vessel's  side. 
The  sabre  smote  above, — 

Beneath,  the  lean  shark  lay, 
Waiting  with  wide  and  bloody  jaw 

His  quick  and  human  prey. 

God  of  the  earth!  what  cries 

Rang  upward  unto  thee? 
Voices  of  agony  and  blood, 

From  ship-deck  and  from  sea. 
The  last  dull  plunge  was  heard,  — 

The  last  wave  caught  its  stain,  — 
And  the  unsated  shark  looked  up 

For  human  hearts  in  vain. 
****** 

Red  glowed  the  western  waters,  — 
The  setting  sun  was  there, 

Scattering  alike  on  wave  and  cloud 
Her  fiery  mesh  of  hair. 

Amidst  a  group  in  blindness, 


STANZAS. 


57 


A  solitary  eye 
Gazed,   from    the    burdened    slaver's 

deck, 
Into  that  burning  sky. 

"  A  storm,"  spoke  out  the  gazer, 

"  Is  gathering  and  at  hand,  — 
Curse  on  't  —  I  'd  give  my  other  eye 

For  one  firm  rood  of  land." 
And  then  he  laughed,  —  but  only 

His  echoed  laugh  replied,  — 
For  the  blinded  and  the  suffering 

Alone  we«e  at  his  side. 

Night  settled  on  the  waters, 

And  on  a  stormy  heaven, 
While  fiercely  on  that  lone  ship's  track 

The  thunder-gust  was  driven. 
"A  sail!  — thank  God,  a  sail!" 

And  as  the  helmsman  spoke, 
Up  through  the  stormy  murmur 

A  shout  of  gladness  broke. 

Down  came  the  stranger  vessel, 

Unheeding  on  her  way, 
So  near,  that  on  the  slaver's  deck 

Fell  off  her  driven  spray. 
"  Ho !  for  the  love  of  mercy,  — 

We're  perishing  and  blind!  " 
A  wail  of  utter  agony 

Came  back  upon  the  wind  : 

"  Help  us !  for  we  are  stricken 

With  blindness  every  one ; 
Ten  days  we  Ve  floated  fearfully, 

Unnoting  star  or  sun. 
Our  ship  's  the  slaver  Leon, — 

We  Ve  but  a  score  on  board,  — 
Our  slaves  are  all  gone  over,  — 

Help,  —  for  the  love  of  God!  " 

On  livid  brows  of  agony 

The  broad  red  lightning  shone, — 
But  the  roar  of  wind  and  thunder 

Stifled  the  answering  groan 
Wailed  from  the  broken  waters 

A  last  despairing  cry, 
As,  kindling  in  the  stormy  light, 

The  stranger  ship  went  by. 


In  the  sunny  Guadaloupe 

A  dark-hulled  vessel  lay,  — 
With  a  crew  who  noted  never 

The  nightfall  or  the  day. 
The  blossom  of  the  orange 

Was  white  by  every  stream, 
And  tropic  leaf,  and  flower,  and  bird 

Were  in  the  warm  sunbeam. 

And  the  sky  was  bright  as  ever, 

And  the  moonlight  slept  as  well, 
On  the  palm-trees  by  the  hillside, 

And  the  streamlet  of  the  dell : 
And  the  glances  of  the  Creole 

Were  still  as  archly  deep, 
And  her  smiles  as  full  as  ever 

Of  passion  and  of  sleep. 

But  vain  were  bird  and  blossom, 

The  green  earth  and  the  sky, 
And  the  smile  of  human  faces, 

To  the  slavers  darkened  eye ; 
At  the  breaking  of  the  morning, 

At  the  star-lit  evening  time, 
O'er  a  world  of  light  and  beauty 

Fell  the  blackness  of  his  crime. 


STANZAS. 

["The  despotism  which  our  fathers 
could  not  bear  in  their  native  country  is 
expiring,  and  the  sword  of  justice  in  her 
reformed  hands  has  applied  its  extermi- 
nating edge  to  slavery.  Shall  the  United 
States  —  the  free  United  States,  which 
could  not  bear  the  bonds  of  a  king  —  cradle 
the  bondage  which  a  king  is  abolishing  ? 
Shall  a  Republic  be  less  free  than  a  Mon- 
archy ?  Shall  we,  in  the  vigor  and  buoy- 
ancy of  our  manhood,  be  less  energetic 
in  righteousness  than  a  kingdom  in  its 
age  ?  "  — Dr.  Fallen's  Address. 

"  Genius  of  America  !  —  Spirit  of  our  free 
institutions  !  —  where  art  thou  ? — How  art 
thou  fallen,  O  Lucifer  !  son  of  the  morning, 
—  how  art  thou  fallen  from  Heaven  !  Hell 
from  beneath  is  moved  for  thee,  to  meet 
thee  at  thy  coming  !  -The  kings  of  the 
earth  cry  out  to  thee.  Aha !  Aha !  —  ART 

THOU  BECOME  LIKE  UNTO  US  !  "  —  Speech 
of  Samuel  J.  Afay.~\ 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


OUR  fellow-countrymen  in  chains ! 

Slaves  —  in  a  land  of  light  and  law ! 
Slaves  —  crouching  on  the  very  plains 
Where   rolled    the    storm  of  Free- 
dom's war! 
A    groan     from      Eutaw's     haunted 

wood,  — 
A   wail   where   Camden's    martyrs 

fell,— 

By  every  shrine  of  patriot  blood. 
From  Moul trie's  wall  and  Jasper's 
well! 

By  storied  hill  and  hallowed  grot, 

By  mossy  wood  and  marshy  glen, 
Whence  rang  of  old  the  rifle-shot, 
And   hurrying   shout    of   Marion's 

men ! 
The    groan    of    breaking  hearts     is 

there,  — 
The      falling     lash,  —  the     fetter's 

clank! 
Slaves,  —  SLAVES    are  breathing    in 

that  air, 

Which  old   De  Kalb  and  Sumter 
drank ! 

What,     ho!  —  our     countrymen      in 

chains! 
The  whip   on  WOMAN'S  shrinking 

flesh ! 
Our     soil    yet     reddening   with    the 

stains 
Caught  from  her  scourging,  warm 

and  fresh ! 
What!  mothers   from   their   children 

riven ! 
What !  God's  own  image  bought  and 

sold ! 
AMERICANS  to  market  driven, 

And  bartered  as  the  brute  for  gold ! 

Speak!  shall  their  agony  of  prayer 
Come    thrilling  to    our   hearts     in 
vain? 

To  us  whose  fathers  scorned  to  bear 
The  paltry  menace  of  a  chain  ; 

To  us,  whose  boast  is  loud  and  long 
Of  holy  Liberty  and  Light,  — 


Say,    shall    these   writhing   slaves  of 

Wrong, 

Plead    vainly    for  their   plundered 
Right? 

What!   shall   we  send,    with    lavish 

breath, 

Our  sympathies  across  the  wave, 
Where  Manhood,  on  the  field  of  death, 
Strikes  for  his  freedom  or  a  grave? 
Shall  prayers  go  up,  and  hymns  be 

sung 
For     Greece,     the    Moslem   fetter 

spurning, 
And    millions    hail     with    pen    and 

tongue 
Our  light  on  all  her  altars  burning? 

Shall    Belgium     feel,      and     gallant 

France, 
By   Vendome's   pile   and   Schoen- 

brun's  wall, 
And  Poland,  gasping  on  her  lance, 

The  impulse  of  our  cheering  call  ? 
And  shall   the   SLAVE,   beneath   our 

eye, 
Clank   o'er  our   fields   his    hateful 

chain? 

And  toss  his  fettered  arms  on  high, 
And  groan    for  Freedom's  gift,  in 
vain? 

O,  say,  shall  Prussia's  banner  be 

A  refuge  for  the  stricken  slave? 
And  shall  the  Russian  serf  go  free 

By  Baikal's  lake  and  Neva's  wave? 
And  shall  the  wintry-bosomed  Dane 

Relax  the  iron  hand  of  pride. 
And  bid  his  bondmen  cast  the  chain. 

From  fettered  soul  and  limb,  aside? 

Shall  every  flap  of  England's  flag 

Proclaim  that  all  around  are  free, 
From  "  farthest   Ind  "   to  each  blue 

crag 

That  beetles  o'er  the  Western  Sea  ? 

And  shall  we  scoff  at  Europe's  kings, 

When   Freedom's  fire  is  dim  with 

us, 
And  round  our  country's  altar  clings 


THE  YANKEE   GIRL. 


59 


The  damning  shade   of  Slavery's 
curse  ? 

Go  —  let  us  ask  of  Constantine 
To   loose  his  grasp   on     Poland's 

throat ; 

And  beg  the  lord  of  Mahmoud's  line 

To  spare  the  struggling  Suliote, — 

Will  not  the  scorching  answer  come 

From  turbaned  Turk,  and  scornful 

Russ  : 
"  Go,   loose  your  fettered  slaves   at 

home, 
Then  turn,  and  ask  the  like  of  us !  " 

Just  God!  and  shall  we  calmly  rest, 
The   Christian's  scorn,  —  the  hea- 
then's mirth,  — 
Content  to  live  the  lingering  jest 

And  by-word  of  a  mocking  Earth  ? 
Shall  our  own  glorious  land  retain 
That  curse  which  Europe  scorns  to 

bear? 
Shall    our   own    brethren   drag    the 

chain 

Which  not  even   Russia's   menials 
wear? 


Up,  then,  in  Freedom's  manly  part, 

From  graybeard  eld  to  fiery  youth, 
And  on  the  nation's  naked  heart 

Scatter  the  living  coals  of  Truth! 
Up,  —  while  ye  slumber,  deeper  yet 

The  shadow  of  our  fame  is  grow- 
ing! ^ 

Up,  —  while    ye  pause,  our  sun  may 
set 

In  blood,  around  our  altars  flowing  ! 

Oh!  rouse  ye,  ere   the   storm   comes 
forth,  — 

The  gathered   wrath  of  God  and 

man,— 
Like  that  which  wasted  Egypt's  earth, 

When  hail  and  fire  above  it  ran. 
Hear  ye  no  warnings  in  the  air? 

Feel  ye  no  earthquake  underneath  ? 
Up,  — up!  why  will  ye  slumber  where 

The  sleeper  only  wakes  in  death? 


Up  now  for  Freedom  !  —  not  in  strife 
Like  that  your  sterner  fathers  saw,  — 
The  awful  waste  of  human  life,  — 
The  glory  and  the  guilt  of  war : 
But  break  the  chain,  —  the  yoke  re- 
move, 

And  smite  to  earth  Oppression's  rod, 
With  those  mild  arms  of  Truth  and 

Love, 

Made    mighty   through  the   living 
God! 

Down  let  the  shrine  of  Moloch  sink, 
And  leave  no  traces  where  it  stood  ; 
Nor  longer  let  its  idol  drink 

His  daily  cup  of  human  blood ; 
But  rear  another  altar  there, 

To   Truth    and   Love  and   Mercy 

given, 
And  Freedom's   gift,  and  Freedom's 

prayer, 

Shall   call   an   answer  down   from 
Heaven! 


THE   YANKEE   GIRL. 

SHE  sings   by  her  wheel  at  that  low 

cottage-door, 
Which    the  long  evening  shadow   is 

stretching  before, 
With  a  music  as  sweet  as  the  music 

which  seems 
Breathed  softly  and  faint  in  the  ear 

of  our  dreams! 

How  brilliant  and  mirthful  the  light 

of  her  eye, 
Like   a   star   glancing   out  from   the 

blue  of  the  sky! 
And  lightly  and  freely  her  dark  tresses 

play 
O'er  a  brow  and  a  bosom  as  lovely 

as  they! 

Who  comes  in  his  pride  to  that  low 

cottage-door,  — 
The  haughty  and  rich  to  the  humble 

and  poor? 


6o 


VOICES  OF   FREEDOM. 


'T  is   the  great   Southern  planter,— 

the  master  who  waves 
His  whip  of  dominion  o'er  hundreds 

of  slaves. 

"  Nay,  Ellen,  —  for  shame!  Let  those 

Yankee  fools  spin, 
Who  would  pass  for  our  slaves  with  a 

change  of  their  skin  ; 
Let  them  toil  as  they  will  at  the  loom 

or  the  wheel, 
Too  stupid  for  shame,  and  too  vulgar 

to  feel! 

"  But  thou  art  too  lovely  and  precious 
a  gem 

To  be  bound  to  their  burdens  and 
sullied  by  them, — 

For  shame,  Ellen,  shame,  —  cast  thy 
bondage  aside, 

And  away  to  the  South,  as  my  bless- 
ing and  pride. 

"  O,  come  where  no  winter  thy  foot- 
steps can  wrong, 

But  where  flowers  are  blossoming  all 
the  year  long, 

Where  the  shade  of  the  palm-tree  is 
over  my  home, 

And  the  lemon  and  orange  are  white 
in  their  bloom! 

"  O,  come  to  my  home,  where  my  ser- 
vants shall  all 

Depart  at  thy  bidding  and  come  at  thy 
call; 

They  shall  heed  thee  as  mistress  with 
trembling  and  awe, 

And  each  wish  of  thy  heart  shall  be  felt 
as  a  law." 

O,  could  ye  have  seen  her —  that  pride 

of  our  girls  — 
Arise  and  cast  back  the  dark  wealth 

of  her  curls, 
With  a  scorn  in  her  eye  which  the 

gazer  could  feel, 
And  a  glance  like  the  sunshine  that 

flashes  on  steel! 


"  Go  back,  haughty  Southron  !  thy 
treasures  of  gold 

Are  dim  with  the  blood  of  the  hearts 
thou  hast  sold  ; 

Thy  home  may  be  lovely,  but  round  it 
I  hear 

The  crack  of  the  whip  and  the  foot- 
steps of  fear! 

"  And  the  sky  of  thy  South  may  be 
brighter  than  ours, 

And  greener  thy  landscapes,  and  fairer 
thy  flowers  ; 

But  dearer  the  blast  round  our  moun- 
tains which  raves, 

Than  the  sweet  summer  zephyr  which 
breathes  over  slaves! 

"  Full  low  at  thy  bidding  thy  negroes 

may  kneel, 
With   the  iron  of  bondage  on  spirit 

and  heel ; 
Yet  know  that  the  Yankee  girl  sooner 

would  be 
In  fetters  with  them,  than  in  freedom 

with  thee !  " 


TO  W.  L.  G. 

CHAMPION   of  those  who  groan  be- 
neath 

Oppression's  iron  hand : 
In  view  of  penury,  hate,  and  death, 

I  see  thee  fearless  stand. 
Still  bearing  up  thy  lofty  brow, 

In  the  steadfast  strength  of  truth, 
In  manhood  sealing  well  the  vow 

And  promise  of  thy  youth. 

Go  on,  —  for  thou  hast  chosen  well ; 

On  in  the  strength  of  God! 
Long  as  one  human  heart  shall  swell 

Beneath  the  tyrant's  rod. 
Speak  in  a  slumbering  nation's  ear, 

As  thou  hast  ever  spoken, 
Until  the  dead  in  sin  shall  hear, — 

The  fetter's  link  be  broken! 


THE   HUNTERS   OF  MEN. 


61 


I  love  thee  with  a  brother's  love, 

I  feel  my  pulses  thrill, 
To  mark  thy  spirit  soar  above 

The  cloud  of  human  ill. 
My  heart  hath  leaped  to  answer  thine, 

And  echo  back  thy  words, 
As  leaps  the  warrior's  at  the  shine 

And  flash  of  kindred  swords! 

They  tell  me  thou  art  rash  and  vain  — 

A  searcher  after  fame  ; 
That  thou  art  striving  but  to  gain 

A  long-enduring  name ; 
That  thou  hast  nerved  the  Afric's  hand 

And  steeled  the  Afric's  heart, 
To  shake  aloft  his  vengeful  brand, 

And  rend  his  chain  apart. 

Have  I  not  known  thee  well,  and  read 

Thy  mighty  purpose  long? 
And  watched  the  trials   which   have 
made 

Thy  human  spirit  strong? 
And  shall  the  slanderer's  demon  breath 

Avail  with  one  like  me, 
To  dim  the  sunshine  of  my  faith 

And  earnest  trust  in  thee? 

Go  on, —  the  dagger's  point  may  glare 

Amid  thy  pathway's  gloom,  — 
The  fate  which  sternly  threatens  there 

Is  glorious  martyrdom! 
Then  onward  with  a  martyr's  zeal ; 

And  wait  thy  sure  reward 
When  man  to  man  no  more  shall  kneel, 

And  God  alone  be  Lord! 

1833- 

SONG   OF   THE   FREE. 

PRIDE  of  New  England! 

Soul  of  our  fathers ! 
Shrink  we  all  craven-like 

When  the  storm  gathers  ? 
What  though  the  tempest  be 

Over  us  lowering, 
Where  's  the  New-Englander 

Shamefully  cowering? 
Graves  green  and  holy 

Around  us  are  lying,  — 


:836. 


Free  were  the  sleepers  all, 
Living  and  dying! 

Back  with  the  Southerner's 

Padlocks  and  scourges! 
Go,  —  let  him  fetter  down 

Ocean's  free  surges ! 
Go,  —  let  him  silence 

Winds,  clouds,  and  waters, 
Never  New  England's  own 

Free  sons  and  daughters ! 
Free  as  our  rivers  are 

Ocean-ward  going, — 
Free  as  the  breezes  are 

Over  us  blowing. 

Up  to  our  altars,  then, 

Haste  we,  and  summon 
Courage  and  loveliness, 

Manhood  and  woman! 
Deep  let  our  pledges  be : 

Freedom  forever ! 
Truce  with  oppression, 

Never,  oh!  never! 
By  our  own  birthright-gift, 

Granted  of  Heaven,  — 
Freedom  for  heart  and  lip, 

Be  the  pledge  given ! 

If  we  have  whispered  truth, 

Whisper  no  longer  ; 
Speak  as  the  tempest  does, 

Sterner  and  stronger ; 
Still  be  the  tones  of  truth 

Louder  and  firmer, 
Startling  the  haughty  South 

With  the  deep  murmur ; 
God  and  our  charter's  right, 

Freedom  forever! 
Truce  with  oppression, 

Never,  oh!  never! 


THE   HUNTERS    OF   MEN. 

HAVE  ye  heard  of  our  hunting,  o'er 

mountain  and  glen, 
Through  cane-brake  and  forest,  —  the 

hunting  of  men? 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


The  lords  of  our  land  to  this  hunting 

have  gone, 
As  the  fox-hunter  follows  the  sound 

of  the  horn ; 
Hark!  —  the  cheer  and  the  hallo!  — 

the  crack  of  the  whip, 
And    the   yell    of  the    hound    as    he 

fastens  his  grip! 
All  blithe  are  our  hunters,  and  noble 

their  match,  — 
Though    hundreds  are  caught,  there 

are  millions  to  catch. 
So  speed  to  their  hunting,  cTer  moun- 
tain and  glen, 
Through  cane-brake  and  forest,  —  the 

hunting  of  men ! 


Gay  luck  to  our  hunters !  —  how  nobly 

they  ride 
In   the   glow  of  their   zeal,  and  the 

strength  of  their  pride !  — 
The  priest  with  his  cassock  flung  back 

on  the  wind, 
Just   screening  the  politic  statesman 

behind,  — 
The  saint  and  the  sinner,  with  cursing 

and  prayer,  — 
The  drunk  and  the  sober,  ride  merrily 

there. 
And  woman,  —  kind  woman,  —  wife, 

widow,  and  maid, 
For  the  good  of  the  hunted,  is  lending 

her  aid : 
Her  foot's  in  the  stirrup,  her  hand  on 

the  rein, 
How  blithely  she  rides  to  the  hunting 

of  men ! 


O,  goodly  and  grand  is  our  hunting 
to  see, 

In  this  "land  of  the  brave  and  this 
home  of  the  free." 

Priest,  warrior,  and  statesman,  from 
Georgia  to  Maine, 

All  mounting  the  saddle,  —  all  grasp- 
ing the  rein,  — 

Right  merrily  hunting  the  black  man, 
whose  sin 


Is  the  curl  of  his  hair  and  the  hue  of 

his  skin! 
Woe,  now,  to  the  hunted  who  turns 

him  at  bay! 
Will  our  hunters  be  turned  from  their 

purpose  and  prey  ? 
Will  their  hearts  fail  within  them  ?  — 

their  nerves  tremble,  when 
All  roughly  they  ride  to  the  hunting 

of  men  ? 


Ho!  —  ALMS    for    our    hunters!     all 

weary  and  faint, 
Wax   the    curse   of    the    sinner    and 

prayer  of  the  saint. 
The    horn    is    wound    faintly,  —  the 

echoes  are  still, 
Over  cane-brake  and  river,  and  forest 

and  hill. 
Haste,  —  alms   for   our   hunters!  the 

hunted  once  more 
Have   turned    from   their  flight  with 

their  backs  to  the  shore  : 
What   right   have  they  here   in  the 

home  of  the  white, 

Shadowed  o'er  by  our  banner  of  Free- 
dom and  Right? 
Ho !  —  alms  for  the  hunters !  or  never 

again 
Will  they  ride  in  their  pomp  to  the 

hunting  of  men! 


ALMS,  —  ALMS  for  our  hunters !  why 

•will  ye  delay, 
When  their  pride  and  their  glory  are 

melting  away  ? 
The  parson  has  turned  ;  for,  on  charge 

of  his  own, 
Who    goeth    a  warfare,    or  hunting, 

alone? 
The  politic  statesman  looks  back  with 

a  sigh,  — 
There  is  doubt  in  his  heart,  —  there  is 

fear  in  his  eye. 
O,  haste,  lest  that  doubting  and  fear 

shall  prevail, 
And   the  head  of  his  steed  take  the 

place  of  the  tail. 


CLERICAL   OPPRESSORS. 


O,  haste,  ere  he  leave  us !  for  who  will 

ride  then, 
For  pleasure  or  gain,  to  the  hunting 

of  men  ? 

1835-  

CLERICAL  OPPRESSORS. 

[In  the  report  of  the  celebrated  pro- 
slavery  meeting  in  Charleston,  S.  C.,  on 
the  4th  of  the  gth  month,  1835,  published  in 
the  Courier  of  that  city,  it  is  stated,  "  The 
CLERGY  of  all  denominations  attended  in 
a  body,  LENDING  THEIR  SANCTION  TO  THE 
PROCEEDINGS,  and  adding  by  their  pres- 
ence to  the  impressive  character  of  the 
scene ! "] 

JUST  God !  —  and  these  are  they 
Who  minister  at  thine  altar,  God  of 

Right! 
Men  who  their  hands  with  prayer  and 

blessing  lay 
On  Israel's  Ark  of  light! 

What!  preach  and  kidnap  men? 
Give     thanks, — and    rob    thy    own 

afflicted  poor  ? 
Talk  of  thy  glorious  liberty,  and  then 

Bolt  hard  the  captive's  door? 

What !  servants  of  thy  own 
Merciful  Son,  who  came  to  seek  and 

save 

The  homeless  and  the  outcast,  —  fet- 
tering down 
The  tasked  and  plundered  slave! 

Pilate  and  Herod,  friends! 
Chief  priests  and   rulers,    as   of  old, 

combine ! 
Just  God  and  holy!   is   that  church, 

which  lends 
Strength  to  the  spoiler,  thine? 

Paid  hypocrites,  who  turn 
Judgment  aside,   and   rob  the   Holy 

Book 
Of  those  high  words  of  truth  which 

search  and  burn 
In  warning  and  rebuke ; 


Feed  fat,  ye  locusts,  feed  ! 
And,  in  your  tasselled  pulpits,  thank 

the  Lord 
That,    from    the    toiling    bondman's 

utter  need, 
Ye  pile  your  own  full  board. 

How  long,  O  Lord  !  how  long 
Shall  such  a  priesthood  barter  truth 

away, 
And    in   thy  name,  for   robbery  and 

wrong 
At  thy  own  altars  pray? 

Is  not  thy  hand  stretched  forth 
Visibly  in   the    heavens,  to  awe  and 

smite  ? 
Shall    not   the  living  God  of  all  the 

earth, 
And  heaven  above,  do  right  ? 

Woe,  then,  to  all  who  grind 
Their  brethren  of  a  common  Father 

down! 
To  all  who  plunder  from  the  immortal 

mind 
Its  briht  and    lorious  crown! 


Woe  to  the  priesthood  !  woe 
To  those  whose  hire  is  with  the  price 

of  blood,  — 
Perverting,  -darkening,   changing,  as 

they  go, 
The  searching  truths  of  God! 

Their  glory  and  their  might 
Shall    perish  ;  and  their  very  names 

shall  be 
Vile    before   all    the  people,   in  the 

light 
Of  a  world's  liberty. 

O,  speed  the  moment  on 
When   Wrong  shall  cease,  and  Lib- 

erty and  Love 
And  Truth  and  Right  throughout  the 

earth  be  known 
As  in  their  home  above. 


64 


VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 


THE  CHRISTIAN  SLAVE. 

[In  a  late  publication  of  L.  T.  Tasistro,  — 
"  Random  Shots  and  Southern  Breezes,"  — 
is  a  description  of  a  slave  auction  at  New 
Orleans,  at  which  the  auctioneer  recom- 
mended the  woman  on  the  stand  as  "  A 
GOOD  CHRISTIAN!"] 

A  CHRISTIAN!  going,  gone! 
Who  bids  for  God's  own  image  ?  —  for 

his  grace, 

Which  that  poor  victim  of  the  market- 
pi  ace 
Hath  in  her  suffering  won  ? 

My  God!  can  such  things  be? 
Hast  thou  not  said  that  whatsoe'er  is 

done 
Unto  thy  weakest  and  thy  humblest 

one 
Is  even  done  to  thee? 

In  that  sad  victim,  then, 
Child  of  thy  pitying  love,  I  see  thee 

stand,  — 
Once  more  the  jest-word  of  a  mocking 

band, 
Bound,  sold,  and  scourged  again ! 

A  Christian  up  for  sale ! 
Wet  with  her  blood  your  whips,  o'er- 

task  her  frame, 
Make  her  life  loathsome  with   your 

wrong  and  shame, 
Her  patience  shall  not  fail ! 

A  heathen  hand  might  deal 
Back    on   your  heads    the   gathered 

wrong  of  years  : 
But    her    low,    broken     prayer    and 

nightly  tears, 
Ye  neither  heed  nor  feel. 

Con  well  thy  lesson  o'er, 
Thou  prudent  teacher,  —  tell  the  toil- 
ing slave 
No  dangerous  tale  of  Him  who  came 

to  save 
The  outcast  and  the  poor. 


But  wisely  shut  the  ray 
Of  God's  free  Gospel  from  her  simple 

heart, 
And   to   her    darkened    mind    alone 

impart 
One  stern  command,  —  OBEY  ! 

So  shalt  thou  deftly  raise 
The  market  price   of  human   flesh ; 

and  while 
On   thee,  their   pampered  guest,  the 

planters  smile, 
Thy  church  shall  praise. 

Grave,  reverend  men  shall  tell 
From  Northern  pulpits  how  thy  work 

was  blest, 
While  in  that  vile  South  Sodom,  first 

and  best, 
Thy  poor  disciples  sell. 

O,  shame!  the  Moslem  thrall, 
Who,  with  his  master,  to  the  Prophet 

kneels, 
While   turning  to  the  sacred  Kebla 

feels 
His  fetters  break  and  fall. 

Cheers  for  the  turbaned  Bey 
Of   robber-peopled    Tunis!  he    hath 

torn 
The   dark  slave-dungeons  open,  and 

hath  borne 
Their  inmates  into  day  ; 

But  our  poor  slave  in  vain 
Turns   to    the    Christian   shrine    his 

aching  eyes, — 
Its   rites  will  only  swell   his   market 

price, 
And  rivet  on  his  chain. 

God  of  all  right !  how  long 
Shall  priestly  robbers   at   thine  altar 

stand, 
Lifting  in  prayer  to  thee,  the  bloody 

hand 
And  haughty  brow  of  wrong? 


STANZAS   FOR  THE  TIMES. 


O,  from  the  fields  of  cane, 
From  the  low  rice-swamp,  from   the 

trader's  cell,  — 
From  the  black  slave-ship's  foul  and 

loathsome  hell. 
And  cofHe's  weary  chain,  — 

Hoarse,  horrible,  and  strong, 
Rises  to  Heaven  that  agonizing  cry, 
Filling  the  arches  of  the  hollow  sky, 

HOW  LONG,  O  GOD,  HOW  LONG  ? 


STANZAS  FOR  THE  TIMES. 

Is  this  the  land  our  fathers  loved, 
The  freedom  which  they  toiled  to 

win  ? 

Is  this  the  soil  whereon  they  moved? 
Are  these  the  graves  they  slumber 

in? 

Are  we  the  sons  by  whom  are  borne 
The   mantles   which    the   dead   have 
worn  ? 

And    shall   we   crouch    above    these 

graves, 

With  craven  soul  and  fettered  lip? 
Yoke  in   with  marked  and   branded 

slaves, 

And  tremble  at  the  driver's  whip? 
Bend  to  the  earth  our  pliant  knees, 
And   speak  —  but    as     our    masters 
please  ? 

Shall  outraged  Nature  cease  to  feel? 

Shall  Mercy's  tears  no  longer  flow? 

Shall   ruffian    threats    of     cord   and 

steel,  — 

The  dungeon's  gloom,  —  the  assas- 
sin's blow, 

Turn  back  the  spirit  roused  to  save 
The    Truth,    our   Country,    and   the 
Slave? 

Of  human  skulls  that  shrine  was  made, 
Round  which  the  priests  of  Mexico 

Before  their  loathsome  idol  prayed  ;  — 
Is  Freedom's  altar  fashioned  so? 


And  must  we  yield  to  Freedom's  God, 
As  offering  meet,  the  negro's  blood  ? 

Shall   tongues  be  mute,  when  deeds 

are  wrought 
Which  well  might  shame  extremest 

hell? 
Shall   freemen    lock     the    indignant 

thought  ? 

Shall  Pity's  bosom  cease  to  swell? 
Shall    Honor    bleed?— shall     Truth 

succumb  ? 
Shall   pen,   and   press,   and  soul  be 

dumb  ? 

No ;  —  by     each     spot     of   haunted 

ground, 

Where   Freedom   weeps    her  chil- 
dren's fall,  — 

By   Plymouth's   rock,   and    Bunker's 

mound,  — 

By  Griswold's  stained  and  shattered 
wall,  — 

By  Warren's  ghost,  —  by  Langdon's 
shade, — 

By  all  the  memories  of  our  dead! 

By  their  enlarging  souls,  which  burst 
The  bands  and  fetters  round  them 
set,- 

By  the  free  Pilgrim  spirit  nursed 
Within  our  inmost  bosoms,  yet,  — 

By  all  above,  around,  below, 

Be  ours  the  indignant  answer,  —  NO ! 

No  ;  —  guided  by  our  country's  laws, 
For  truth,  and  right,  and  suffering 

man, 

Be  ours  to  strive  in  Freedom's  cause, 
As   Christians   may,  —  as   freemen 

can ! 

Still  pouring  on  unwilling  ears 
That  truth  oppression  only  fears. 

What!  shall   we  guard  our  neighbor 

still, 
While  woman  shrieks  beneath  his 

rod, 

And  while  he  tramples  down  at  will 
The  image  of  a  common  God! 


66 


VOICES   OF   FREEDOM. 


Shall  watch  and  ward  be  round  him 

set, 
Of  Northern  nerve  and  bayonet  ? 

And   shall  we  know  and  share  with 

him 
The    danger    and     the     growing 

shame? 

And  see  our  Freedom's  light  grow  dim, 
Which  should  have  filled  the  world 

with  flame? 

And,  writhing,  feel,  where'er  we  turn, 
A  world's  reproach  around  us  burn  ? 

Is 't  not  enough  that  this  is  borne  ? 
And   asks    our   haughty    neighbor 

more  ? 
Must  fetters   which   his   slaves  have 

worn 
Clank   round  the  Yankee  farmer's 

door? 

Must  he  be  told,  beside  his  plough, 
What  he  must  speak,  and  when,  and 

how? 

Must  he  be  told  his  freedom  stands 
On     Slavery's     dark      foundations 

strong,  — 
On    breaking     hearts     and     fettered 

hands, 

On  robbery,  and  crime,  and  wrong? 
That  all  his  fathers  taught  is  vain,— 
That  Freedom's  emblem  is  the  chain  ? 

Its  life,  its  soul,  from  slavery  drawn? 
False,    foul,  profane  !  Go,  —  teach 

as  well 

Of  holy  Truth  from  Falsehood  born! 
Of  Heaven  refreshed  by  airs  from 

Hell! 

Of  Virtue  in  the  arms  of  Vice! 
Of  Demons  planting  Paradise! 

Rail    on,    then,     "brethren     of   the 

South,"  — 
Ye   shall   not   hear  the   truth   the 

less ;  — 

No  seal  is  on  the  Yankee's  mouth. 
No  fetter  on  the  Yankee's  press! 


From  our  Green  Mountains  to  the  sea, 
One  voice  shall  thunder,  —  WE  ARE 
FREE! 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  ON  READING  THE  MESSAGE 
OF  GOVERNOR  RITNEU,  OF  PENN- 
SYLVANIA, 1836. 

THANK  God  for  the  token!  —  one  lip 
is  still  free, — 

One  spirit  untrammelled, — unbend- 
ing one  knee! 

Like  the  oak  of  the  mountain,  deep- 
rooted  and  firm, 

Erect,  when  the  multitude  bends  to 
the  storm ; 

When  traitors  to  Freedom,  and 
Honor,  and  God, 

Are  bowed  at  an  Idol  polluted  with 
blood ; 

When  the  recreant  North  has  forgot- 
ten her  trust, 

And  the  lip  of  her  honor  is  low  in  the 
dust,  — 

Thank  God,  that  one  arm  from  the 
shackle  has  broken! 

Thank  God,  that  one  man  as  a  free- 
man has  spoken ! 

O'er  thy  crags,  Alleghany,  a  blast  has 
been  blown  ! 

Down  thy  tide,  Susquehanna,  the  mur- 
mur has  gone  ! 

To  the  land  of  the  South,  —  of  the 
charter  and  chain,  — 

Of  Liberty  sweetened  with  Slavery's 
pain ; 

Where  the  cant  of  Democracy  dwells 
on  the  lips 

Of  the  forgers  of  fetters,  and  wielders 
of  whips ! 

Where  "  chivalric"  honor  means  really 
no  more 

Than  scourging  of  women,  and  rob- 
bing the  poor! 


LINES. 


Where  the  Moloch  of  Slavery  sitteth 

on  high, 
And  the  words  which  he  utters,  are  — 

WORSHIP,  OR  DIE! 

Right  onward,  O  speed  it!  Wherever 
the  blood 

Of  the  wronged  and  the  guiltless  is 
crying  to  God  ; 

Wherever  a  slave  in  his  fetters  is  pin- 
ing; 

Wherever  the  lash  of  the  driver  is 
twining ; 

Wherever  from  kindred,  torn  rudely 
apart, 

Comes  the  sorrowful  wail  of  the 
broken  of  heart ; 

\Vherever  the  shackles  of  tyranny 
bind, 

In  silence  and  darkness,  the  God- 
given  mind ; 

There,  God  speed  it  onward!  —  its 
truth  will  be  felt,  — 

The  bonds  shall  be  loosened,  —  the 
iron  shall  melt! 

And  O,  will  the  land  where  the  free 

soul  of  PENN 

Still  lingers  and  breathes  over  moun- 
tain and  glen,  — 
Will    the   land  where  a   BENEZET'S 

spirit  went  forth 
To  the  peeled,  and   the  meted,  and 

outcast  of  Earth,  — 
Where   the  words  of  the  Charter  of 

Liberty  first 
From  the  soul  of  the  sage  and   the 

patriot  burst,  — 
Where  first  for  the  wronged  and  the 

weak  of  their  kind, 
The   Christian   and   statesman    their 

efforts  combined, — 
Will    that   land  of  the  free  and  the 

good  wear  a  chain  ? 
Will  the  call  to  the  rescue  of  Freedom 

be  vain? 

No,  RITNER  !  —  her  "  Friends  "  at  thy 
warning  shall  stand 


Erect  for  the  truth,  like  their  ances- 
tral band  ; 

Forgetting  the  feuds  and  the  strife  of 
past  time, 

Counting  coldness  injustice,  and  si- 
lence a  crime ; 

Turning  back  from  the  cavil  of  creeds, 
to  unite 

Once  again  for  the  poor  in  defence  of 
the  Right; 

Breasting  calmly,  but  firmly,  the  full 
tide  of  Wrong, 

Overwhelmed,  but  not  borne  on  its 
surges  along ; 

Unappalled  by  the  danger,  the  shame, 
and  the  pain, 

And  counting  each  trial  for  Truth  as 
their  gain ! 

And  that  bold-hearted  yeomanry,  hon- 
est and  true, 
Who,  haters  of  fraud,  give  to  labor  its 

due ; 
Whose  fathers,  of  old,  sang  in  concert 

with  thine, 
On  the  banks  of  Swetara,  the  songs 

of  the  Rhine, — 
The  German-born  pilgrims,  who  first 

dared  to  brave 
The  scorn  of  the  proud  in  the  cause 

of  the  slave  :  — 
Will  the  sons  of  such  men  yield  the 

lords  of  the  South 
One    brow  for   the   brand,  —  for   the 

padlock  one  mouth? 
They  cater  to  tyrants?  —  They  rivet 

the  chain, 
Which  their  fathers  smote  off,  on  the 

negro  again  ? 

No,  never  !  —  one  voice,  like  the  sound 

in  the  cloud, 
When   the  roar  of  the  storm  waxes 

loud  and  more  loud, 
Wherever  the  foot  of  the  freeman  hath 

pressed 
From   the  Delaware's  marge   to   the 

Lake  of  the  West, 
On    the    South-going    breezes   shaU 

deepen  and  grow 


68 


VOICES   OF   FREEDOM. 


Till  the  land  it  sweeps  over  shall 
tremble  below! 

The  voice  of  a  PEOPLE,  —  uprisen,  — 
awake,  — 

Pennsylvania's  watchword,  with  Free- 
dom at  stake, 

Thrilling  up  from  each  valley,  flung 
down  from  each  height, 

"OUR  COUNTRY  AND  LIBERTY!  — 
GOD  FOR  THE  RIGHT!  " 


THE   PASTORAL   LETTER. 

So,  this  is  all,  —  the  utmost  reach 

Of  priestly  power  the  mind  to  fetter! 
When   laymen  think — when  women 

preach  — 

A  war  of  words  —  a  "  Pastoral  Let- 
ter! " 

Now,  shame  upon  ye,  parish  Popes! 
Was  it  thus  with  those,  your  prede- 
cessors, 
Who  sealed  with  racks,  and  fire,  and 

ropes 

Their  loving-kindness  to  transgres- 
sors? 

A  "  Pastoral  Letter,"  grave  and  dull  — 
Alas !  in  hoof  and  horns  and  fea- 
tures, 

How  different  is  your  Brookfield  bull, 
From   him  who   bellows   from  St. 

Peter's ! 
Your  pastoral  rights  and  powers  from 

harm, 
Think  ye,  can  words  alone  preserve 

them? 

Your  wiser  fathers  taught  the  arm 
And  sword  of  temporal   power  to 
serve  them. 

O,  glorious  days,  —  when  Church  and 

State 

Were  wedded  by  your  spiritual  fa- 
thers J 

And  on  submissive  shoulders  sat 
Your  Wilsons  and  your  Cotton  Ma- 
thers. 


No  vile  "  itinerant "  then  could  mar 
The  beauty  of  your  tranquil  Zion, 

But  at  his  peril  of  the  scar 

Of  hangman's  whip  and  branding- 


Then,  wholesome  laws  relieved   the 

Church 

Of  heretic  and  mischief-maker, 
And  priest  and  bailifTjoined  in  search, 
By  turns,  of  Papist,  witch,  and  Qua- 
ker! 
The    stocks  were    at    each    church's 

door, 

The  gallows  stood  on  Boston  Com- 
mon, 

A  Papist's  ears  the  pillory  bore,  — 
The  gallows-rope,  a  Quaker  woman! 

Your  fathers  dealt  not  as  ye  deal 
With      "  non-professing "      frantic 

teachers ; 
They  bored  the  tongue  with  red-hot 

steel, 
And   flayed   the   backs  of  "female 

preachers." 

Old  Newbury,  had  her  fields  a  tongue, 
And  Salem's  streets  could  tell  their 

story, 

Of  fainting  woman  dragged  along, 
Gashed  by  the  whip,  accursed  and 
gory! 

And  will  ye  ask  me,  why  this  taunt 

Of    memories     sacred     from     the 

scorner? 
And  why  with  reckless  hand  I  plant 

A  nettle  on  the  graves  ye  honor? 
Not  to  reproach  New  England's  dead 

This  record  from  the  past  I  summon, 
Of  manhood  to  the  scaffold  led, 

And  suffering  and  heroic  woman. 

No,  —  for  yourselves  alone,  I  turn 
The  pages  of  intolerance  over, 

That,  in  their  spirit,  dark  and  stern, 
Ye  haply  may  your  own  discover! 

For,  if  ye  claim  the  "  pastoral  right," 
To  silence  Freedom's  voice  of  warn- 
ing, 


LINES. 


69 


And  from  your  precincts  shut  the  light 
Of  Freedom's  day  around  ye  dawn- 
ing; 

If  when  an  earthquake  voice  of  power, 
And  signs  in  earth  and  heaven,  are 

showing 
That  forth,  in  its  appointed  hour, 

The  Spirit  of  the  Lord  is  going! 
And,  with  that  Spirit,  Freedom's  light 
On    kindred,    tongue,    and    people 

breaking, 
Whose   slumbering   millions,   at   the 

sight, 
In  glory  and  in  strength  are  waking ! 

When  for  the  sighing  of  the  poor, 

And  for  the  needy,  God  hath  risen, 
And  chains  are  breaking,  and  a  door 

Is  opening  for  the  souls  in  prison! 
If  then  ye  would,  with  puny  hands, 

Arrest  the  very  work  of  Heaven, 
And  bind  anew  the  evil  bands 

Which  God's  right  arm  of  power 
hath  riven,  — 

What  marvel  that,  in  many  a  mind, 

Those  darker  deeds  of  bigot  mad- 
ness 
Are  closely  with  your  own  combined, 

Yet  "'less  in   anger   than   in   sad- 
ness "  ? 
What  marvel,  if  the  people  learn 

To  claim  the  right  of  free  opinion? 
What  marvel,  if  at  times  they  spurn 

The  ancient  yoke  of  your  dominion? 

A  glorious  remnant  linger  yet, 

Whose  lips  are  wet"  at    Freedom's 

fountains, 
The  coming  of  whose  welcome  feet 

Is  beautiful  upon  our  mountains! 
Men,  who  the  gospel  tidings  bring 

Of  Liberty  and  Love  forever, 
Whose  joy  is  an  abiding  spring, 

Whose  peace  is  as  a  gentle  river! 

But  ye,  who  scorn  the  thrilling  tale 
Of  Carolina's  high-souled  daughters, 

Which  echoes  here  the  mournful  wail 
Of  sorrow  from  Edisto's  waters, 


Close  while  ye  may  the  public  ear,  — 
With    malice     vex,    with     slander 

wound  them,  — 
The  pure  and  good  shall  throng  to 

hear, 

And  tried   and   manly  hearts  sur- 
round them. 

O,  ever  may  the  power  which  led 
Their  way  to  such  a  fiery  trial, 
And  strengthened  womanhood  to  tread 
The  wine-press  of  such  self-denial, 
Be  round  them  in  an  evil  land, 

With    wisdom   and   with   strength 

from  Heaven, 
With    Miriam's    voice,   and    Judith's 

hand, 

And  Deborah's  song,  for  triumph 
given! 

And  what  are  ye  who  strive  with  God 

Against  the  ark  of  his  salvation, 
Moved  by  the  breath  of  prayer  abroad, 

With  blessings  for  a  dying  nation? 
What,  but  the  stubble  and  the  hay 

To  perish,  even  as  flax  consuming, 
With  all  that  bars  his  glorious  way, 

Before  the  brightness  of  his  coming? 

And  thou,  sad  Angel,  who  so  long 

Hast  waited  for  the  glorious  token, 
That  Earth    from   all    her   bonds   of 
wrong 

To  liberty  and  light  has  broken,  — 
Angel  of  Freedom!  soon  to  thee 

The    sounding    trumpet    shall    be 

given, 
And  over  Earth's  full  jubilee 

Shall  deeper  joy  be  felt  in  Heaven! 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  MEETING  OF  THE 
ANTI-SLAVERY  SOCIETY,  AT  CHAT- 
HAM STREET  CHAPEL,  N.Y.,  HELD 
ON  THE  4TH  OF  THE  7TH  MONTH, 
1834. 

O  THOU,  whose  presence  went  before 
Our  fathers  in  their  weary  way, 


7o 


VOICES  OF   FREEDOM. 


As  with  thy  chosen  moved  of  yore 
The  fire  by  night,  the  cloud  by  day! 

When  from  each  temple  of  the  free, 
A  nation's  song  ascends  to  Heaven, 

Most  Holy  Father!  unto  thee 

May   not   our   humble    prayer    be 
given? 

Thy  children  all,  —  though  hue  and 
form 

Are  varied  in  thine  own  good  will,  — 
With  thy  own  holy  breathings  warm, 

And  fashioned  in  thine  image  still. 

We   thank    thee,    Father!  —  hill    and 

plain 
Around  us   wave  their  fruits   once 

more, 
And  clustered   vine,  and   blossomed 

grain, 

Are   bending   round   each    cottage 
door. 

And  peace  is  here ;  and  hope  and 
love 

Are  round  us  as  a  mantle  thrown, 
And  unto  Thee,  supreme  above, 

The  knee  of  prayer  is  bowed  alone. 

But  O,  for  those  this  day  can  bring, 
As  unto  us,  no  joyful  thrill,  — 

For  those  who,  under  Freedom's  wing, 
Are  bound  in  Slavery's  fetters  still : 

For  those  to  whom  thy  living  word 
Of  light  and  love  is  never  given,  — 

For  those  whose  ears  have  never  heard 
The    promise    and    the    hope     of 
Heaven! 

For  broken  heart,  and  clouded  mind, 
Whereon  no  human  mercies  fall, — 

O,  be  thy  gracious  love  inclined, 
Who,  as  a  Father,  pitiest  all ! 

And  grant,  O  Father!  that  the  time 

Of  Earth's  deliverance  may  be  near, 
When    every   land  and   tongue   and 
clime 


The    message    of  thy   love    shall 
hear,  — 

When,    smitten    as    with    fire    from 

•    heaven, 

The  captive's   chain  shall   sink  in 

dust, 
And  to  his  fettered  soul  be  given 

The  glorious  freedom  of  the  just! 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  CELEBRATION  OF 
THE  THIRD  ANNIVERSARY  OF  BRIT- 
ISH EMANCIPATION  AT  THE  BROAD- 
WAY TABERNAC 
AUGUST,"  1837. 

O  HOLY  FATHER!  — just  and  true 

Are  all  thy  works  and  words  and 

ways, 
And  unto  thee  alone  are  due 

Thanksgiving  and  eternal  praise ! 
As  children  of  thy  gracious  care, 

We  veil  the  eye,  we  bend  the  knee, 
With   broken   words   of    praise    and 
prayer, 

Father  and  God,  we  come  to  thee. 

For  thou  hast  heard,  O  God  of  Right, 

The  sighing  of  the  island  slave  ; 
And   stretched    for   him  the  arm  of 

might, 

Not  shortened  that  it  could  not  save. 
The  laborer  sits  beneath  his  vine, 
The   shackled   soul   and    hand  are 

free,- 
Thanksgiving!  —  for     the     work     is 

thine ! 
Praise !  —  for  the  blessing  is  of  thee ! 

And  O,  we  feel  thy  presence  here,— 

Thy  awful  arm  in  judgment  bare! 
Thine  eye  hath  seen  the  bondman's 

tear,  — 
Thine  ear  hath  heard  the  bondman's 

prayer. 

Praise!  —  for  the  pride  of  man  is  low, 
The  counsels  of  the  wise  are  naught, 


LINES. 


The  fountains  of  repentance  flow  ; 
What    hath    our    God    in    mercy 
wrought? 

Speed  on   thy   work,    Lord   God   of 
Hosts! 

And  when  the  bondman's  chain  is 

riven, 
And  swells  from  all  our  guilty  coasts 

The  anthem  of  the  free  to  Heaven, 
O,  not  to  those  whom  thou  hast  led, 

As  with  thy  cloud  and  fire  before, 
But  unto  thee,  in  fear  and  dread, 

Be  praise  and  glory  evermore. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  ANNIVERSARY 
CELEBRATION  OF  THE  FIRST  OF 
AUGUST,  AT  MILTON,  1846. 

A  FEW  brief  years  have  passed  away 
Since   Britain    drove    her    million 

slaves 

Beneath  the  tropic's  fiery  ray : 
God  willed  their  freedom ;  and  to-day 
Life    blooms    above    those    island 
graves ! 

He  spoke!  across  the  Carib  Sea, 
We   heard   the  clash    of  breaking 

chains, 

And  felt  the  heart-throb  of  the  free, 
The  first,  strong  pulse  of  liberty 
Which   thrilled    along    the    bond- 
man's veins. 

Though  long   delayed,  and  far,  and 

slow, 
The     Briton's     triumph    shall    be 

ours  : 

Wears  slavery  here  a  prouder  brow 
Than  that  which  twelve  short  years 

ago 

Scowled   darkly    from    her    island 
bowers  ? 

Mighty  alike  for  good  or  ill 

With  mother-land,  we  fully  share 


The  Saxon  strength,  —  the  nerve  of 

steel,  — 
The  tireless  energy  of  will, — 

The    power    to    do,  the   pride   to 

dare. 

What  she  has  done  can  we  not  do? 
Our   hour    and    men   are   both   at 

hand ; 
The    blast   which    Freedom's    angel 

blew 
O'er     her     green     islands,     echoes 

through 
Each  valley  of  our  forest  land. 

Hear  it,  old  Europe!  we  have  sworn 
The  death  of  slavery.  —  When  it 

falls, 

Look  to  your  vassals  in  their  turn, 
Your   poor    dumb   millions,   crushed 

and  worn, 

Your    prisons     and     your    palace 
walls! 

O  kingly  mockers!  —  scoffing  show 
What  deeds  in  Freedom's  name  we 

do; 

Yet  know  that  every  taunt  ye  throw 
Across  the  waters,  goads  our  slow 
Progression  towards  the  right  and 
true. 

Not  always  shall  your  outraged  poor, 

Appalled  by  democratic  crime, 
Grind   as    their   fathers    ground    be- 
fore, — 

The  hour  which  sees  our  prison  door 
Swing  wide  shall  be  their  triumph 
time. 

On  then,  my  brothers!  every  blow 
Ye    deal    is    felt    the   wide   earth 

through  ; 

Whatever  here  uplifts  the  low 
Or  humbles  Freedom's  hateful  foe, 
Blesses  the  Old  World  through  the 
New. 

Take    heart!    The     promised     hour 
draws  near, — 


72 


VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 


I  hear  the  downward  beat  of  wings, 
And    Freedom's    trumpet    sounding 

clear : 

"Joy  to  the  people!  —  woe  and  fear 
To    new-world   tyrants,   old-world 
kings ! " 


THE  FAREWELL 

OF  A  VIRGINIA  SLAVE  MOTHER  TO 
HER  DAUGHTERS  SOLD  INTO 
SOUTHERN  BONDAGE. 

GONE,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
Where     the     slave-whip     ceaseless 

swings, 

Where  the  noisome  insect  stings. 
Where  the  fever  demon  strews 
Poison  with  the  falling  dews, 
Where  the  sickly  sunbeams  glare 
Through  the  hot  and  misty  air, — • 
Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
There  no  mother's  eye  is  near  them, 
There    no    mother's    ear    can    hear 

them  ; 

Never,  when  the  torturing  lash 
Seams  their  back  with  many  a  gash, 
Shall    a     mother's     kindness     bless 

them, 

Or  a  mother's  arms  caress  them. 
Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,— 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
O,  when  weary,  sad,  and  slow, 
From  the  fields  at  night  they  go, 
Faint  with  toil,  and  racked  with  pain, 
To  their  cheerless  homes  again, 


There  no  brother's  voice  shall  greet 

them, — 
There    no    father's    welcome    meet 

them. 

Gone,  gone, —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters, — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  the  tree  whose  shadow  lay 
On  their  childhood's  place  of  play, — 
From    the    cool   spring  where   they 

drank, — 

Rock,  and  hill,  and  rivulet  bank,  — 
From  the  solemn  hougfe  of  prayer, 
And  the  holy  counsels  there,  — 
Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters, — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 

To     the     rice-swamp     dank     and 

lone,— 

Toiling  through  the  weary  day, 
And  at  night  the  spoiler's  prey. 
O  that  they  had  earlier  died, 
Sleeping  calmly,  side  by  side, 
Where  the  tyrant's  power  is  o'er, 
And  the  fetter  galls  no  more! 
Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters, — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
By  the  holy  love  He  beareth, — 
By  the  bruised  reed  He  spareth,  — 
O,  may  He,  to  whom  alone 
All  their  cruel  wrongs  are  known, 
Still  their  hope  and  refuge  prove, 
With  a  more  than  mother's  love. 
Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters, — • 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters ! 


THE   WORLD'S   CONVENTION. 


73 


THE   MORAL   WARFARE. 

WHEN  Freedom,  on  her  natal  day, 
Within  her  war-rocked  cradle  lay, 
An  iron  race  around  her  stood, 
Baptized  her  infant  brow  in  blood ; 
And,  through  the  storm  which  round 

her  swept, 
Their  constant   ward  and   watching 

kept. 

Then,  where  our  quiet  herds  repose, 
The  roar  of  baleful  battle  rose, 
And  brethren  of  a  common  tongue 
To  mortal  strife  as  tigers  sprung, 
And  every  gift  on  Freedom's  shrine 
Was  man  for  beast,  and  blood  for 


Our    fathers    to    their   graves    have 

gone; 
Their  strife  is  past,  —  their  triumph 

won; 

But  sterner  trials  wait  the  race 
Which  rises  in  their  honored  place, — 
A  moral  warfare  with  the  crime 
And  folly  of  an  evil  time. 

So  let  it  be.     In  God's  own  might 
We  gir^l  us  for  the  coming  fight. 
And,  strong  in  Him  whose  cause  is 

ours 

In  conflict  with  unholy  powers, 
We    grasp     the    weapons    He    has 

given,  — 
The  Light,,  and  Truth,  and  Love  of 

Heaven. 


THE    WORLD'S    CONVENTION 

OF  THE  FRIENDS  OF   EMANCIPATION, 
HELD   IN   LONDON   IN    1840. 

YES,    let    them    gather!  —  Summon 

forth 

The  pledged  philanthropy  of  Earth, 
From  every  land,  whose  hills  have 

heard 


The  bugle  blast  of  Freedom  wak- 
ing ; 

Or  shrieking  of  her  symbol-bird 
From  out  his  cloudy  eyrie  break- 
ing: 

Where  Justice  hath  one  worshipper, 
Or  truth  one  altar  built  to  her ; 
Where'er  a  human  eye  is  weeping 
O'er   wrongs    which    Earths    sad 

children  know,  — 
Where'er  a  single  heart  is  keeping 
Its    prayerful   watch   with    human 

woe : 
Thence    let    them   come,   and  greet 

each  other, 

And    know    in    each    a    friend    and 
brother! 

Yes,  let  them  come !  from  each  green 

vale 
Where     England's     old     baronial 

halls 

Still  bear  upon  their  storied  walls 
The  grim  crusader's  rusted  mail, 
Battered  by  Paynim  spear  and  brand 
On  Malta's  rock  or  Syria's  sand! 
And  mouldering  pennon-staves  once 

set 

Within  the  soil  of  Palestine, 
By  Jordan  and  Genessaret ; 
Or,   borne   with    England's   battle 

line, 

O'er  Acre's  shattered  turrets  stoop- 
ing* 
Or,   midst   the   camp   their   banners 

drooping, 
With  dews  from  hallowed  Hermon 

wet, 

A  holier  summons  now  is  given 
Than    that   gray  hermit's  voice  of 

old, 
Which  unto  all  the  winds  of  heaven 

The  banners  of  the  Cross  unrolled! 
Not  for  the  long-deserted  shrine,  — 
Not  for  the  dull  unconscious  sod, 
Which  tells  not  by  one  lingering  sign 
That    there    the     hope   of   Israel 

trod  ;  — 

But  for  that  TRUTH,  for  which  alone 
In  pilgrim  eyes  are  sanctified 


74 


VOICES   OF   FREEDOM. 


The  garden  moss,  the  mountain  stone, 
Whereon  his  holy  sandals  pressed, — 
The  fountain  which  his  lip  hath 

blessed, — 
Whatever  hath  touched  his  garment's 

hem 
At  Bethany  or  Bethlehem, 

Or  Jordan's  river-side. 
For  FREEDOM,  in  the  name  of  Him 
Who  came  to  raise  Earth's  drooping 

poor, 

To  break  the  chain  from  every  limb, 
The  bolt  from  every  prison  door ! 
For  these,   o'er  all   the   earth    hath 

passed 

An  ever-deepening  trumpet  blast, 
As  if  an  angel's  breath  had  lent 
Its  vigor  to  the  instrument. 

And  Wales,  from  Snowden's  mountain 

wall, 
Shall  startle  at  that  thrilling  call, 

As  if  she  heard  her  bards  again  ; 
And  Erin's  "  harp  on  Tara's  wall  " 

Give  out  its  ancient  strain, 
Mirthful  and  sweet,  yet  sad  withal,  — 

The  melody  which  Erin  loves, 
W'hen  o'er  that  harp,  'mid   bursts  of 

gladness 

And  slogan  cries  and  lyke-wake  sad- 
ness, 

•  The  hand  of  her  O'Connell  moves ! 
Scotland,  from  lake  and  tarn  and  rill, 
And  mountain  hold,  and  heathery 

hill, 
Shall    catch    and    echo    back  the 

note, 

As  if  she  heard  upon  her  air 
Once  more  her  Cameronian's  prayer 

And  song  of  Freedom  float. 
And  cheering  echoes  shall  reply 
From  each  remote  dependency, 
Where     Britain's     mighty     sway    is 

known, 

In  tropic  sea  or  frozen  zone  ; 
Where'er  her  sunset  flag  is  furling, 
Or  morning  gun-fire's  smoke  is  curl- 
ing ; . 

From  Indian  Bengal's  groves  of  palm 
And  rosy  fields  and  gales  of  balm, 


Where  Eastern  pomp  and  power  are 

rolled 

Through  regal  Ava's  gates  of  gold  ; 
And  from  the  lakes  and  ancient  woods 
And  dim  Canadian  solitudes, 
Whence,    sternly    from      her    rocky 

throne, 
Queen   of  the   North,  Quebec  looks 

down ; 
And  from  those  bright  and  ransomed 

Isles 

Where  all  unwonted  Freedom  smiles, 
And  the  dark  laborer  still  retains 
The  scar  of  slavery's  broken  chains ! 

From  the  hoar  Alps,  which  sentinel 
The  gateways  of  the  land  of  Tell, 
Where  morning's  keen   and    earliest 

glance 

On  Jura's  rocky  wall  is  thrown, 
And  from  the  olive  bowers  of  France 
And    vine   groves    garlanding    the 

Rhone,  — 
"  Friends  of  the  Blacks,"  as  true  and 

tried 

As  those  who  stood  by  Oge's  side, 
And  heard  the  Haytien's  tale  of  wrong, 
Shallgatherat  thatsummons  strong, — 
Broglie,  Passy,  and  him  whose  song 
Breathed  over  Syria's  holy  sod, 
And  in  the  paths  which  Jesus. trod, 
And  murmured  midst  the  hills  which 

hem 

Crownless  and  sad  Jerusalem, 
Hath  echoes  wheresoever  the  tone 
Of  Israel's  prophet-lyre  is  known. 

Still  let  them   come,  —  from   Quito's 
walls, 

And  from  the  Orinoco's  tide, 
From  Lima's  Inca-haunted  halls, 
From  Sante  Fe  and  Yucatan,  — 

Men  who  by  swart  Guerrero's  side 
Proclaimed  the  deathless  RIGHTS  OF 

MAN, 

Broke  every  bond  and  fetter  off", 
And  hailed  in  every  sable  serf 

A  free  and  brother  Mexican ! 

Chiefs  who  across  the  Andes'  chain 


THE   WORLD'S  CONVENTION. 


75 


Have  followed  Freedom's   flowing 

pennon, 

And  seen  on  Junin's  fearful  plain, 
Glare  o'er  the  broken  ranks  of  Spain 

The  fire-burst  of  Bolivar's  cannon ! 
And  Hayti,  from  her  mountain  land, 

Shall  send  the  sons  of  those  who 

hurled 

Defiance  from  her  blazing  strand,  — 
The  war-gage  from  her  Petion's  hand, 

Alone  against  a  hostile  world. 

Nor  all  unmindful,  thou,  the  while, 
Land  of  the  dark  and  mystic  Nile !  — 

Thy  Moslem  mercy  yet  may  shame 

All  tyrants  of  a  Christian  name,  — 
When  in  the  shade  of  Gizeh's  pile, 
Or,  where  from  Abyssinian  hills 
El  Gerek's  upper  fountain  fills, 
Or  where  from  Mountains  of  the  Moon 
El  Abiad  bears  his  watery  boon. 
Where'er  thy  lotus  blossoms  swim 

Within      their     ancient     hallowed 

waters,  — 
Where'er  is  heard  the  Coptic  hymn, 

Or    song   of  Nubia's  sable  daugh- 
ters, — 

The  curse  of  SLAVERY  and  the  crime, 
Thy  bequest  from  remotest  time, 
At  thy  dark  Mehemet's  decree 
Forevermore  shall  pass  from  thee  ; 

And  chains  forsake  each  captive's 

limb 

Of  all  those  tribes,  whose  hills  around 
Have  echoed  back  the  cymbal  sound 

And  victor  horn  of  Ibrahim. 

And   thou   whose   glory   and    whose 

crime 

To  earth's  remotest  bound  and  clime, 
In  mingled  tones  of  awe  and  scorn, 
The  echoes  of  a  world  have  borne, 
My  country!  glorious  at  thy  birth, 
A  day-star  flashing  brightly  forth, — 
The     herald-sign     of     Freedom's 

dawn ! 
O,  who  could  dream  that   saw   thee 

then, 

And  watched  thy  rising  from  afar, 
That  vapors  from  oppression's  fen 


Would   cloud  the  upward  tending 

star? 
Or,  that  earth's  tyrant  powers,  which 

heard. 
Awe-struck,  the  shout  which  hailed 

thy  dawning, 
Would  rise  so  soon,  prince,  peer,  and 

king, 

To  mock  thee  with  their  welcoming. 
Like  Hades  when   her  thrones  were 

stirred 
To   greet    the     down-cast   Star  of 

Morning! 

u  Aha!  and  art  thou  fallen  thus? 
Art  THOU  become  as  one  of  us?" 

Land  of  my  fathers !  —  there  will  stand, 
Amidst  that  world-assembled  band, 
Those  owning  thy  maternal  claim 
Unweakened     by     thy     crime     and 

shame,  — 

The  sad  reprovers  of  thy  wrong,  — 
The    children   thou  hast   spurned  so 

long. 

Still  with  affection's  fondest  yearning 
To  their  unnatural  mother  turning. 
No  traitors  they!  —  but  tried  and  leal, 
Whose  own  is  but  thy  general  weal, 
Still  blending  with  the  patriot's  zeal 
The  Christian's  love  for  human  kind, 
To  caste  and  climate  unconfined. 

A  holy  gathering !  —  peaceful  all : 
No  threat  of  war,  —  no  savage  call 

For  vengeance  on  an  erring  brother; 
But  in  their  stead  the  godlike  plan 
To  teach  the  brotherhood  of  man 

To  love  and  reverence  one  another, 
As  sharers  of  a  common  blood, 
The  children  of  a  common  God!  — 
Yet,  even  at  its  lightest  word, 
Shall    Slavery's    darkest    depths   be 

stirred : 

Spain,  watching  from  herMoro's  keep 
Her  slave-ships  traversing  the  deep, 
And  Rio,  in  her  strength  and  pride, 
Lifting,  along  her  mountain-side, 
Her  snowy  battlements  and  towers,  — 
Her  lemon-groves  and  tropic  bowers, 
With  bitter  hate  and  sullen  fear 


76 


VOICES  OF    FREEDOM. 


Its  freedom-giving  voice  shall  hear  ; 
And  where  my  country's  flag  is  flow- 
ing* 

On  breezes  from  Mount  Vernon  blow- 
ing 

Above  the  Nation's  council  halls. 
Where  Freedom's  praise  is  loud  and 

long, 
While    close  beneath  the  outward 

walls 

The  driver  plies  his  reeking  thong,  — 
The  hammer  of  the  man-thief  falls, 
O'er  hypocritic  cheek  and  brow 
The    crimson   flush    of    shame   shall 

glow : 

And  all  who  for  their  native  land 
Are    pledging    life    and    heart    and 

hand,  — 
Worn   watchers    o'er    her    changing 

weal, 

Who  for  her  tarnished  honor  feel,  — 
Through   cottage   door  and  council- 
hall 

Shall  thunder  an  awakening  call. 
The  pen  along  its  page  shall  burn 
With  all  intolerable  scorn,  — 
An  eloquent  rebuke  shall  go 
On   all    the   winds    that    Southward 

blow,  — 
From  priestly  lips,  now   sealed   and 

dumb, 

Warning  and  dread  appeal  shall  come, 
Like  those  which  Israel  heard  from 

him, 

The  Prophet  of  the  Cherubim,  — 
Or  those  which  sad  Esaias  hurled 
Against  a  sin-accursed  world ! 
Its  wizard  leaves  the  Press  shall  fling 
Unceasing  from  its  iron  wing, 
With  characters  inscribed  thereon, 

As  fearful  in  the  despot's  hall 
As  to  the  pomp  of  Babylon 

The  fire-sign  on  the  palace  wall! 
And,  from  her  dark  iniquities, 
Methinks  I  see  my  country  rise : 
Not  challenging  the  nations  round 

To  note  her  tardy  justice  clone,— 
Her  captives  from   their   chains   un- 
bound, 
Her  prisons  opening  to  the  sun  :  — 


But  tearfully  her  arms  extending 
Over  the  poor  and  unoffending ; 

Her  regal  emblem  now  no  longer 
A  bird  of  prey,  with  talons  reeking, 
Above  the  dying  captive  shrieking, 
But,  spreading  out  her  ample  wing,  — 
A  broad,  impartial  covering,  — 

The  weaker  sheltered  by  the  strong- 
er!— 
O,  then  to  Faith's  anointed  eyes 

The  promised  token  shall  be  given  ; 
And  on  a  nation's  sacrifice, 
Atoning  for  the  sin  of  years, 
And  wet  with  penitential  tears,  — 

The  fire  shall  fall  from  Heaven ! 
1839. 


NEW   HAMPSHIRE. 
1845. 

GOD   bless  New  Hampshire !  — from 

her  granite  peaks 
Once  more  the   voice   of  Stark   and 

Langdon  speaks. 
The  long-bound  vassal  of  the  exulting 

South 
For  very  shame  her  self-forged  chain 

has  broken, — 
Torn  the  black  seal  of  slavery  from 

her  mouth, 
And  in  the  clear  tones  of  her  old 

time  spoken ! 
O,  all  undreamed-of,  all  unhoped-for 

changes !  — 

The  tyrant's  ally  proves  his  stern- 
est foe ; 
To  all  his  biddings,  from  her  mountain 

ranges, 

New  Hampshire  thunders  an  indig- 
nant No! 
Who  is  it  now  despairs?  O,  faint  of 

heart, 
Look   upward    to   those   Northern 

mountains  cold, 
Flouted   by   Freedom's   victor-flag 

unrolled, 

And  gather  strength  to  bear  a  manlier 
part ! 


THE  NEW  YEAR. 


77 


All  is  not  lost.     The  angel  of  God's 

blessing 
Encamps  with  Freedom  on  the  field 

of  fight ; 
Still  to  her  banner,  day  by  day,  are 

pressing, 
Unlooked-for  allies,  striking  for  the 

right! 
Courage,  then.  Northern  hearts !  —  Be 

firm,  be  true : 
What  one  brave  State  hath  done,  can 

ye  not  also  do? 


THE   NEW   YEAR: 

ADDRESSED     TO     THE     PATRONS     OF 
THE   PENNSYLVANIA    FREEMAN. 

THE  wave  is  breaking  on  the  shore, — 
The  echo  fading  from  the  chime,  — 

Again  the  shadow  moveth  o'er 
The  dial-plate  of  time! 

O,  seer-seen  Angel !  waiting  now 

With  weary  feet  on  sea  and  shore, 
Impatient  for  the  last  dread  vow 

That  time  shall  be  no  more! 
Once  more  across  thy  sleepless  eye 

The    semblance    of    a    smile    has 

passed : 
The  year  departing  leaves  more  nigh 

Time's  fearfullest  and  last. 

O,  in  that  dying  year  hath  been 
The  sum  of  all  since  time  began,  — 

The  birth  and  death,  the  joy  and  pain, 
Of  Nature  and  of  Man. 

Spring,  with  her  change  of  sun  and 

shower, 
And  streams  released  from  winter's 

chain, 

And  bursting  bud,  and  opening  flower, 
And  greenly  growing  grain  ; 

And  Summer's  shade,  and  sunshine 
warm, 


And   rainbows    o'er    her    hill-tops 

bowed, 

And  voices  in  her  rising  storm,  — 
God  speaking  from  his  cloud!  — 

And  Autumn's  fruits  and  clustering 
sheaves, 

And  soft,  warm  days  of  golden  light, 
The  glory  of  her  forest  leaves, 

And  harvest-moon  at  night ; 

And  Winter  with  her  leafless  grove, 
And  prisoned  stream,  and  drifting 
snow, 

The  brilliance  of  her  heaven  above 
And  of  her  earth  below  :  — 

And  man,  —  in  whom  an  angel's  mind 
With    earth's    low    instincts    finds 
abode,  — 

The  highest  of  the  links  which  bind 
Brute  nature  to  her  God  ; 

His  infant  eye  hath  seen  the  light, 
His  childhood's  merriest  laughter 
rung, 

And  active  sports  to  manlier  might 
The  nerves  of  boyhood  strung! 

And  quiet  love,  and  passion's  fires, 
Have  soothed  or  burned  in  man- 
hood's breast, 

And  lofty  aims  and  low  desires 
By  turns  disturbed  his  rest. 

The  wailing  of  the  newly-born 

Has  mingled  with  the  funeral  knell ; 

And  o'er  the  dying's  ear  has  gone 
The  merry  marriage-bell. 

And  Wealth  has  filled  his  halls  with 

mirth, 
While   Want,   in    many  a   humble 

shed, 
Toiled,   shivering    by   her    cheerless 

hearth, 
The  live-long  night  for  bread. 

And  worse  than  all,  —  the  human 
slave,  — 


VOICES   OF   FREEDOM. 


The  sport  of  lust,  and  pride,  and 

scorn ! 
Plucked    off    the    crown    his    Maker 

gave,  — 
His  regal  manhood  gone! 

O,  still,  my  country !  o'er  thy  plains, 
Blackened  with  slavery's  blight  and 
ban, 

That  human  chattel  drags  his  chains, — 
An  uncreated  man ! 

And  still,  where'er  to  sun  and  breeze, 
My  country,  is  thy  flag  unrolled, 

With  scorn,  the  gazing  stranger  sees 
A  stain  on  every  fold. 

O,  tear  the  gorgeous  emblem  down ! 

It  gathers  scorn  from  every  eye, 
And   despots   smile   and    good    men 
frown 

Whene'er  it  passes  by. 

Shame!  shame!  its  starry  splendors 
glow 

Above  the  slaver's  loathsome  jail,  — 
Its  folds  are  ruffling  even  now 

His  crimson  flag  of  sale. 

Still  round  our  country's  proudest  hall 
The  trade  in  human  flesh  is  driven, 

And  at  each  careless  hammer-fall 
A  human  heart  is  riven. 

And  this,  too,  sanctioned  by  the  men, 
Vested  with  power   to   shield   the 
right, 

And  throw  each  vile  and  robber  den 
Wide  open  to  the  light. 

Yet,  shame  upon  them!  —  there  they 

sit, 
Men   of  the    North,  subdued   and 

still ; 

'Meek,  pliant  poltroons,  only  fit 
To  work  a  master's  will. 

Sold,  —  bargained    off    for    Southern 

votes,  — 
A  passive  herd  of  Northern  mules, 


Just  braying  through  their  purchased 

throats 
Whate'er  their  owner  rules. 

And  he,  —  the  basest  of  the  base, 
The   vilest    of   the    vile,  —  whose 
name, 

Embalmed  in  infinite  disgrace, 
Is  deathless  in  its  shame!  — 

A  tool,  —  to  bolt  the  people's  door 
Against  the  people  clamoring  there, 

An  ass,  —  to  trample  on  their  floor 
A  people's  right  of  prayer! 

Nailed  to  his  self-made  gibbet  fast, 
Self-pilloried  to  the  public  view,  — 

A  mark  for  every  passing  blast 
Of  scorn  to  whistle  through  ; 

There   let   him   hang,  and   hear  the 

boast 
Of     Southrons     o'er     their   pliant 

tool,  — 

A  St.  Stylites  on  his  post, 
"  Sacred  to  ridicule  !  " 

Look  we  at  home!  —  our  noble  hall, 
To  Freedom's  holy  purpose  given, 

Now  rears  its  black  and  ruined  wall, 
Beneath  the  wintry  heaven, — 

Telling  the  story  of  its  doom,— 
The  fiendish  mob,  —  the  prostrate 

law,  — 
The    fiery    jet     through    midnight's 

gloom, 
Our  gazing  thousands  saw. 

Look  to  our  State,  —  the  poor  man's 

right 
Torn  from  him:  —  and  the  sons  of 

those 
Whose  blood  in  Freedom's  sternest 

fight 
Sprinkled  the  Jersey  snows, 

Outlawed  within  the  land  of  Penn, 
That  Slavery's  guilty  fears  might 
cease, 


MASSACHUSETTS  TO  VIRGINIA. 


79 


And  those  whom  God  created  men 
Toil  on  as  brutes  in  peace. 

Yet  o'er  the  blackness  of  the  storm 
A  bow  of  promise  bends  on  high, 

And   gleams   of  sunshine,    soft   and 

warm, 
Break  through  our  clouded  sky. 

East,  West,  and  North,  the  shout  is 
heard, 

Of  freemen  rising  for  the  right : 
Each  valley  hath  its  rallying  word,  — 

Each  hill  its  signal  light. 

O'er  Massachusetts1  rocks  of  gray, 
The  strengthening  light  of  freedom 
shines, 

Rhode  Island's  Narragansett  Bay, — 
And  Vermont's  snow-hung  pines! 

From  Hudson's  frowning  palisades 
To  Alleghany's  laurelled  crest, 

O'er  lakes  and  prairies,  streams  and 

glades, 
It  shines  upon  the  West. 

Speed  on  the  light  to  those  who  dwell 
In  Slavery's  land  of  woe  and  sin, 


And  through   the   blackness  of  that 

hell, 
Let  Heaven's  own  light  break  in. 


So 


conscience 


shall    the    Southern 

quake 
Before  that  light  poured  full  and 

strong, 

So  shall  the  Southern  heart  awake 
To  all  the  bondman's  wrong. 

And  from  that  rich  and  sunny  land 
The  song  of  grateful  millions  rise, 

Like  that  of  Israel's  ransomed  band 
Beneath  Arabia's  skies : 

And  all  who  now  are  bound  beneath 
Our  banner's  shade,  our  eagle's 
wing, 

From  Slavery's  night  of  moral  death 
To  light  and  life  shall  spring. 

Broken    the    bondman's   chain,   and 

gone 
The  master's  guilt,  and  hate,  and 

fear, 
And  unto  both  alike  shall  dawn, 

A  New  and  Happy  Year. 
1839. 


MASSACHUSETTS    TO    VIRGINIA. 

[Written  on  reading  an  account  of  the  proceedings  of  the  citizens  of  Norfolk,  Va.,  in 
reference  to  GEORGE  LATIMER,  the  alleged  fugitive  slave,  the  result  of  whose  case  in  Mas- 
sachusetts will  probably  be  similar  to  that  of  the  negro  SOMERSET  in  England,  in  1772.] 

THE  blast  from  Freedom's  Northern  hills,  upon  its  Southern  way, 

Bears  greeting  to  Virginia  from  Massachusetts  Bay :  — 

No  word  of  haughty  challenging,  nor  battle  bugle's  peal, 

Nor  steady  tread  of  marching  files,  nor  clang  of  horsemen's  steel. 

No  trains  of  deep-mouthed  cannon  along  our  highways  go,  — 

Around  our  silent  arsenals  untrodden  lies  the  snow ; 

And  to  the  land-breeze  of  our  ports,  upon  their  errands  far, 

A  thousand  sails  of  commerce  swell,  but  none  are  spread  for  war. 

We  hear  thy  threats,  Virginia!  thy  stormy  words  and  high, 
Swell  harshly  on  the  Southern  winds  which  melt  along  our  sky ; 
Yet,  not  one  brown,  hard  hand  foregoes  its  honest  labor  here, — 
No  hewer  of  our  mountain  oaks  suspends  his  axe  in  fear. 


So  VOICES   OF   FREEDOM. 


Wild  are  the  waves  which  lash  the  reefs  along  St.  George's  bank,  — 

Cold  on  the  shore  of  Labrador  the  fog  lies  white  and  dank ; 

Through  storm,  and  wave,  and  blinding  mist,  stout  are  the  hearts  which  man 

The  fishing-smacks  of  Marblehead,  the  sea-boats  of  Cape  Ann. 

The  cold  north  light  and  wintry  sun  glare  on  their  icy  forms, 
Bent  grimly  o'er  their  straining  lines  or  wrestling  with  the  storms ; 
Free  as  the  winds  they  drive  before,  rough  as  the  waves  they  roam, 
They  laugh  to  scorn  the  slaver's  threat  against  their  rocky  home. 

What  means  the  Old  Dominion?     Hath  she  forgot  the  day 
When  o'er  her  conquered  valleys  swept  the  Briton's  steel  array? 
How  side  by  side,  with  sons  of  hers,  the  Massachusetts  men 
Encountered  Tarleton's  charge  of  fire,  and  stout  Cornwallis,  then? 

Forgets  she  how  the  Bay  State,  in  answer  to  the  call 
Of  her  old  House  of  Burgesses,  spoke  out  from  Faneuil  Hall? 
When,  echoing  back  her  Henry's  cry,  came  pulsing  on  each  breath 
Of  Northern  winds,  the  thrilling  sounds  of  "  LIBERTY  OR  DEATH  ! " 

What  asks  the  Old  Dominion?     If  now  her  sons  have  proved 
False  to  their  fathers'  memory,  —  false  to  the  faith  they  loved, 
If  she  can  scoff  at  Freedom,  and  its  great  charter  spurn, 
Must  we  of  Massachusetts  from  truth  and  duty  turn  ? 

We  hunt  your  bondmen,  flying  from  Slavery's  hateful  hell, — 
Our  voices,  at  your  bidding,  take  up  tlie  bloodhound's  yell,  — 
We  gather,  at  your  summons,  above  our  fathers'  graves, 
From  Freedom's  holy  altar-horns  to  tear  your  wretched  slaves ! 

Thank  God  !  not  yet  so  vilely  can  Massachusetts  bow  ; 

The  spirit  of  her  early  time  is  with  her  even  now ; 

Dream  not  because  her  Pilgrim  blood  moves  slow  and  calm  and  cool, 

She  thus  can  stoop  her  chainless  neck,  a  sister's  slave  and  tool ! 

All  that  a  sister  State  should  do,  all  that  a.  free  State  may, 
Heart,  hand,  and  purse  we  proffer,  as  in  our  early  day ; 
But  that  one  dark  loathsome  burden  ye  must  stagger  with  alone, 
And  reap  the  bitter  harvest  which  ye  yourselves  have  sown ! 

Hold,  while  ye  may,  your  struggling  slaves,  and  burden  God's  free  air 
With  woman's  shriek  beneath  the  lash,  and  manhood's  wild  despair; 
Cling  closer  to  the  "  cleaving  curse  "  that  writes  upon  your  plains 
The  blasting  of  Almighty  wrath  against  a  land  of  chains. 

Still  shame  your  gallant  ancestry,  the  cavaliers  of  old, 
By  watching  round  the  shambles  where  human  flesh  is  sold,  — 
Gloat  o'er  the  new-born  child,  and  count  his  market  value,  when 
The  maddened  mother's  cry  of  woe  shall  pierce  the  slaver's  den ! 


MASSACHUSETTS  TO   VIRGINIA.  81 

Lower  than  plummet  soundeth,  sink  the  Virginia  name ; 

Plant,  if  ye  will,  your  fathers'  graves  with  rankest  weeds  of  shame ; 

Be,  if  ye  will,  the  scandal  of  God's  fair  universe,  — 

We  wash  our  hands  forever  of  your  sin  and  shame  and  curse. 

A  voice  from  lips  whereon  the  coal  from  Freedom's  shrine  hath  been, 
Thrilled,  as  but  yesterday,  the  hearts  of  Berkshire's  mountain  men : 
The  echoes  of  that  solemn  voice  are  sadly  lingering  still 
In  all  our  sunny  valleys,  on  every  wind-swept  hill. 

And  when  the  prowling  man-thief  came  hunting  for  his  prey 
Beneath  the  very  shadow  of  Bunkers  shaft  of  gray, 
How,  through  the  free  lips  of  the  son,  the  father's  warning  spoke ; 
How,  from  its  bonds  of  trade  and  sect,  the  Pilgrim  city  broke ! 

A  hundred  thousand  right  arms  were  lifted  up  on  high,  — 

A  hundred  thousand  voices  sent  back  their  loud  reply ; 

Through  the  thronged  towns  of  Essex  the  startling  summons  rang, 

And  up  from  bench  and  loom  and  wheel  her  young  mechanics  sprang! 

The  voice  of  free,  broad  Middlesex,  —  of  thousands  as  of  one,  — 
The  shaft  of  Bunker  calling  to  that  of  Lexington,  — 
From  Norfolk's  ancient  villages,  from  Plymouth's  rocky  bound 
To  where  Nantucket  feels  the  arms  of  ocean  close  her  round  ;  — 

From  rich  and  rural  Worcester,  where  through  the  calm  repose 
Of  cultured  vales  and  fringing  woods  the  gentle  Nashua  flows, 
To  where  Wachuset's  wintry  blasts  the  mountain  larches  stir, 
Swelled  up  to  Heaven  the  thrilling  cry  of  "  God  save  Latimer!" 

And  sandy  Barnstable  rose  up,  wet  with  the  salt  sea  spray,— 

And  Bristol  sent  her  answering  shout  down  Narragansett  Bay! 

Along  the  broad  Connecticut  old  Hampden  felt  the  thrill, 

And  the  cheer  of  Hampshire's  woodmen  swept'down  from  Holyoke  Hill. 

The  voice  of  Massachusetts !     Of  her  free  sons  and  daughters,  — 
Deep  calling  unto  deep  aloud,  —  the  sound  of  many  waters ! 
Against  the  burden  of  that  voice  what  tyrant  power  shall  stand? 
No  fetters  in  the  Bay  State!    No  slave  upon  her  land! 

Look  to  it  well,  Virginians!     In  calmness  we  have  borne, 

In  answer  to  our  faith  and  trust,  your  insult  and  your  scorn ; 

You  've  spurned  our  kindest  counsels,  —  you  've  hunted  for  our  lives,  — 

And  shaken  round  our  hearths  and  homes  your  manacles  and  gyves ! 

We  wage  no  war,  —  we  lift  no  arm,  — we  fling  no  torch  within 
The  fire-damps  of  the  quaking  mine  beneath  your  soil  of  sin ; 
We  leave  ye  with  your  bondmen,  to  wrestle,  while  ye  can, 
With  the  strong  upward  tendencies  and  godlike  soul  of  man! 


VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 


But  for  us  and  for  our  children,  the  vow  which  we  have  given 
For  freedom  and  humanity  is  registered  in  Heaven; 
No  slave-hunt  in  our  borders,  —  no  pirate  on  our  strand! 
No  fetters  in  the  Bay  State,  —  no  slave  upon  our  land ! 


THE  RELIC. 

[PENNSYLVANIA  HALL,  dedicated  to  Free 
Discussion  and  the  cause  of  human  liberty, 
was  destroyed  by  a  mob  in  1838.  The  fol- 
lowing was  written  on  receiving  a  cane 
wrought  from  a  fragment  of  the  wood-work 
which  the  fire  had  spared.] 

TOKEN  of  friendship  true  and  tried, 
From  one  whose  fiery  heart  of  youth 

With  mine  has  beaten,  side  by  side, 
For  Liberty  and  Truth  ; 

With  honest  pride  the  gift  I  take, 

And  prize  it  for  the  giver's  sake. 

But  not  alone  because  it  tells 

Of  generous   hand   and  heart  sin- 
cere; 
Around  that  gift  of  friendship  dwells 

A  memory  doubly  clear,  — 
Earth's  noblest  aim,  —  man's  holiest 

thought, 
With  that  memorial  frail  inwrought! 


Pure  thoughts  and  sweet,  like  flowers 

unfold, 
And   precious    memories   round   it 

cling, 
Even  as  the  Prophet's  rod  of  old 

In  beauty  blossoming : 
And  buds  of  feeling  pure  and  good 
Spring  from  its  cold  unconscious  wood. 

Relic  of  Freedom's  shrine !  —  a  brand 
Plucked  from  its  burning !  —  let  it  be 

Dear  as  a  jewel  from  the  hand 
Of  a  lost  friend  to  me!  — 

Flower  of  a  perished  garland  left, 

Of  life  and  beauty  unbereft ! 

O,  if  the  young  enthusiast  bears, 
O'er  weary  waste  and  sea,  the  stone 


Which    crumbled   from   the  Forum's 

stairs, 

Or  round  the  Parthenon  ; 
Or  olive-bough  from  some  wild  tree 
Hung  over  old  Thermopylae  : 

If  leaflets  from  some  hero's  tomb, 
Or   moss-wreath    torn   from    ruins 

hoary,  — 
Or  faded  flowers  whose  sisters  bloom 

On  fields  renowned  in  story,  — 
Or    fragment    from    the    Alhambra's 

crest, 
Or  the  gray  rock  by  Druids  blessed ; 

Sad  Erin's  shamrock  greenly  growing 
Where   Freedom  led  her  stalwart 

kern, 

Or  Scotia's  "  rough  bur  thistle  "  blow- 
ing 

On  Bruce's  Bannockburn,  — 
Or  Runnymede's  wild  English  rose, 
Or  lichen  plucked  from    Sempach's 
snows !  — 

If  it  be  true  that  things  like  these 
To  heart   and   eye   bright   visions 

bring, 
Shall  not  far  holier  memories 

To  this  memorial  cling? 
Which    needs    no  mellowing  mist  of 

time 
To  hide  the  crimson  stains  of  crime ! 

Wreck  of  a  temple,  unprofaned, — 
Of  courts  where  Peace  with  Free- 
dom trod, 
Lifting  on  high,  with  hands  unstained, 

Thanksgiving  unto  God ; 
Where    Mercy's   voice   of    love  was 

pleading 
For  human  hearts  in  bondage  bleed- 


THE   BRANDED   HAND. 


Where,  midst   the  sound  of  rushing 

feet 

And  curses  on  the  night-air  flung, 
That  pleading  voice   rose   calm  and 

sweet 

From  woman's  earnest  tongue  ; 
And  Riot  turned  his  scowling  glance, 
Awed,  from  her  tranquil  countenance ! 

That  temple  now  in  ruin  lies !  — 
The  fire-stain  on  its  shattered  wall, 

And  open  to  the  changing  skies 
Its  black  and  roofless  hall, 

It  stands  before  a  nation's  sight, 

A  gravestone  over  buried  Right ! 

But  from  that  ruin,  as  of  old, 

The  fire-scorched  stones  themselves 
are  crying, 


And  from  their  ashes  white  and  cold 

Its  timbers  are  replying! 
A  voice  which  slavery  cannot  kill 
Speaks    from   the   crumbling  arches 
still! 

And  even  this  relic  from  thy  shrine, 
O  holy  Freedom!  hath  to  me 

A  potent  power,  a  voice  and  sign 
To  testify  of  thee  ; 

And,  grasping  it,  methinks  I  feel 

A  deeper  faith,  a  stronger  zeal. 

And  not  unlike  that  mystic  rod, 
Of  old  stretched  o'er  the  Egyptian 
wave, 

Which  opened,  in  the  strength  of  God, 
A  pathway  for  the  slave, 

It  yet  may  point  the  bondman's  way, 

And  turn  the  spoiler  from  his  prey. 


THE   BRANDED   HAND. 
1846. 

WELCOME  home  again,  brave  seaman!  with  thy  thoughtful  brow  and  gray, 
And  the  old  heroic  spirit  of  our  earlier,  better  day,  — 
With  that  front  of  calm  endurance,  on  whose  steady  nerve  in  vain 
Pressed  the  iron  of  the  prison,  smote  the  fiery  shafts  of  pain! 

Is  the  tyrant's  brand  upon  thee?     Did  the  brutal  cravens  aim 
To  make  God's  truth  thy  falsehood,  his  holiest  work  thy  shame? 
When,  all  blood-quenched,  from  the  torture  the  iron  was  withdrawn, 
How  laughed  their  evil  angel  the  baffled  fools  to  scorn! 

They  change  to  wrong  the  duty  which  God  hath  written  out 

On  the  great  heart  of  humanity,  too  legible  for  doubt! 

They,  the  loathsome  moral  lepers,  blotched  from  footsole  up  to  crown, 

Give  to  shame  what  God  hath  given  unto  honor  and  renown! 

Why,  that  brand  is  highest  honor!  —  than  its  traces  never  yet 
Upon  old  armorial  hatchments  was  a  prouder  blazon  set; 
And  thy  unborn  generations,  as  they  tread  our  rocky  strand, 
Shall  tell  with  pride  the  story  of  their  father's  BRANDED  HAND! 

As  the  Templar  home  was  welcome,  bearing  back  from  Syrian  wars 

The  scars  of  Arab  lances  and  of  Paynim  scymitars, 

The  pallor  of  the  prison,  and  the  shackle's  crimson  span, 

So  we  meet  thee,  so  we  greet  thee,  truest  friend  of  God  and  man! 


84 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


He  suffered  for  the  ransom  of  the  dear  Redeemer's  grave, 
Thou  for  his  living  presence  in  the  bound  and  bleeding  slave ; 
He  for  a  soil  no  longer  by  the  feet  of  angels  trod, 
Thou  for  the  true  Shechinah,  the  present  home  of  God! 

For,  while  the  jurist,  sitting  with  the  slave-whip  o'er  him  swung, 

From  the  tortured  truths  of  freedom  the  lie  of  slavery  wrung, 

And  the  solemn  priest  to  Moloch,  on  each  God-deserted  shrine, 

Broke  the  bondman's  heart  for  bread,  poured  the  bondman's  blood  for  wine, 

While  the  multitude  in  blindness  to  a  far-off  Saviour  knelt, 
And  spurned,  the  while,  the  temple  where  a  present  Saviour  dwelt ; 
Thou  beheld'st  him  in  the  task-field,  in  the  prison  shadows  dim, 
And  thy  mercy  to  the  bondman,  it  was  mercy  unto  him! 

In  thy  lone  and  long  night-watches,  sky  above  and  wave  below, 
Thou  didst  learn  a  higher  wisdom  than  the  babbling  schoolmen  know ; 
God's  stars  and  silence  taught  thee,  as  his  angels  only  can, 
That  the  one  sole  sacred  thing  beneath  the  cope  of  heaven  is  Man! 

That  he  who  treads  profanely  on  the  scrolls  of  law  and  creed, 
In  the  depth  of  God's  great  goodness  may  find  mercy  in  his  need ; 
But  woe  to  him  who  crushes  the  SOUL  with  chain  and  rod, 
And  herds  with  lower  natures  the  awful  form  of  God! 

Then  lift  that  manly  right-hand,  bold  ploughman  of  the  wave! 
Its  branded  palm  shall  prophesy,  "SALVATION  TO  THE  SLAVE!  " 
Hold  up  its  fire-wrought  language,  that  whoso  reads  may  feel 
His  heart  swell  strong  within  him,  his  sinews  change  to  steel. 

Hold  it  up  before  our  sunshine,  up  against  our  Northern  air,  — 
Ho!  men  of  Massachusetts,  for  the  love  of  God,  look  there! 
Take  it  henceforth  for  your  standard,  like  the  Bruce's  heart  of  yore, 
In  the  dark  strife  closing  round  ye,  let  that  hand  be  seen  before! 

And  the  tyrants  of  the  slave-land  shall  tremble  at  that  sign, 
When  it  points  its  finger  Southward  along  the  Puritan  line : 
Woe  to  the  State-gorged  leeches  and  the  Church's  locust  band, 
When  they  look  from  slavery's  ramparts  on  the  coming  of  that  hand! 


TEXAS. 

VOICE   OF   NEW   ENGLAND. 

UP  the  hillside,  down  the  glen, 
Rouse  the  sleeping  citizen  ; 
Summon  out  the  might  of  men! 


Like  a  lion  growling  low, — 
Like  a  night-storm  rising  slow,  — 
Like  the  tread  of  unseen  foe, — 

It  is  coming,  —  it  is  nigh  ! 
Stand  your  homes  and  altars  by ; 
On  your  own  free  thresholds  die. 


TEXAS. 


Clang  the  bells  in  all  your  spires  ; 
On  the  gray  hills  of  your  sires 
Fling  to  heaven  your  signal-fires. 

From  Wachuset,  lone  and  bleak. 

Unto  Berkshire's  tallest  peak, 

Let  the  flame-tongued  heralds  speak. 

O,  for  God  and  duty  stand, 
Heart  to  heart  and  hand  to  hand, 
Round  the  old  graves  of  the  land. 

Whoso  shrinks  or  falters  now, 
Whoso  to  the  yoke  would  bow, 
Brand  the  craven  on  his  brow! 

Freedom's  soil  hath  only  place 
For  a  free  and  fearless  race,  — 
None  for  traitors  false  and  base. 

Perish  party,  —  perish  clan ; 
Strike  together  while  ye  can, 
Like  the  arm  of  one  strong  man. 

Like  that  angel's  voice  sublime, 
Heard  above  a  world  of  crime. 
Crying  of  the  end  of  time,  — 

With  one  heart  and  with  one  mouth, 
Let  the  North  unto  the  South 
Speak  the  word  befitting  both  : 

"What  though  Issachar  be  strong! 
Ye  may  load  his  back  with  wrong 
Overmuch  and  over  long : 

"  Patience  with  her  cup  o'errun, 
With  her  weary  thread  outspun, 
Murmurs  that  her  work  is  done. 

"  Make  our  Union-bond  a  chain, 
Weak  as  tow  in  Freedom's  strain 
Link  by  link  shall  snap  in  twain. 

"  Vainly  shall  your  sand-wrought  rope 
Bind  the  starry  cluster  up, 
Shattered  over  heaven's  blue  cope ! 


"  Give  us  bright  though  broken  rays, 
Rather  than  eternal  haze, 
Clouding  o'er  the  full-orbed  blaze. 

"  Take  your  land  of  sun  and  bloom ; 

Only  leave  to  Freedom  room 

For  her  plough,  and  forge,  and  loom  ; 

"  Take  your  slavery-blackened  vales  ; 
Leave  us  but  our  own  free  gales, 
Blowing  on  our  thousand  sails. 

"  Boldly,  or  with  treacherous  art, 
Strike  the  blood-wrought  chain  apart ; 
Break  the  Union's  mighty  heart ; 

"  Work  the  ruin,  if  ye  will ; 
Pluck  upon  your  heads  an  ill 
Which  shall  grow  and  deepen  still. 

"With    your   bondman's    right    arm 

bare, 

With  his  heart  of  black  despair, 
Stand  alone,  if  stand  ye  dare ! 

"  Onward  with  your  fell  design  ; 
Dig  the  gulf  and  draw  the  line : 
Fire  beneath  your  feet  the  mine : 

"  Deeply,  when  the  wide  abyss 
Yawns  between  your  land  and  this, 
Shall  ye  feel  your  helplessness. 

"  By  the  hearth,  and  in  the  bed, 
Shaken  by  a  look  or  tread, 
Ye  shall  own  a  guilty  dread. 

"  And  the  curse  of  unpaid  toil, 
Downward  through  your  generous  soil 
Like  a  fire  shall  burn  and  spoil. 

"  Our  bleak  hills  shall  bud  and  blow, 
Vines  our  rocks  shall  overgrow, 
Plenty  in  our  valleys  flow  ;  — 

"  And  when  vengeance  clouds  your 

skies, 

Hither  shall  ye  turn  your  eyes,  / 

As  the  lost  on  Paradise! 


86 


VOICES   OF   FREEDOM. 


"  We  but  ask  our  rocky  strand, 
Freedom's  true  and  brother  band, 
Freedom's  strong  and  honest  hand, 

'•  Valleys  by  the  slave  untrod, 
And  the  Pilgrim's  mountain  sod, 
Blessed  of  our  fathers1  God !  " 


TO    FANEUIL    HALL. 
1844. 

MEN!  —  if  manhood  still  ye  claim, 

If  the  Northern  pulse  can  thrill, 
Roused  by  wrong  or  stung  by  shame, 

Freely,  strongly  still,  — 
Let  the  sounds  of  traffic  die  : 

Shut     the     mill-gate,  —  leave     the 

stall,  — 
Fling  the  axe  and  hammer  by, — 

Throng  to  Faneuil  Hall ! 

Wrongs       which       freemen       never 
brooked,  — 

Dangers  grim  and  fierce  as  they, 
Which,  like  couching  lions,  looked 

On  your  fathers'  way,  — 
These  your  instant  zeal  demand, 

Shaking  with  their  earthquake-call 
Every  rood  of  Pilgrim  land, 

Ho,  to  Faneuil  Hall ! 

From  your  capes  and  sandy  bars, — 

From  your  mountain-ridges  cold, 
Through  whose  pines  the  westering 
stars 

Stoop  their  crowns  of  gold,  — 
Come,  and  with  your  footsteps  wake 

Echoes  from  that  holy  wall ; 
Once  again,  for  Freedom's  sake, 

Rock  your  fathers1  hall ! 

Up,  and  tread  beneath  your  feet 
Every  cord  by  party  spun  ; 

Let  your  hearts  together  beat 
As  the  heart  of  one. 

Banks  and  tariffs,  stocks  and  trade, 
Let  them  rise  or  let  them  fall : 


Freedom  asks  your  common  aid,  — 
Up,  to  Faneuil  Hall! 

Up,  and  let  each  voice  that  speaks 

Ring    from     thence    to    Southern 

plains, 
Sharply  as  the  blow  which  breaks 

Prison-bolts  and  chains! 
Speak  as  well  becomes  the  free : 

Dreaded  more  than  steel  or  ball, 
Shall  your  calmest  utterance  be, 

Heard  from  Faneuil  Hall! 

Have  they  wronged  us?     Let  us  then 

Render  back  nor  threats  nor  prayers  ; 
Have  they  chained  our  free-born  men  ? 

LET  us  UNCHAIN  THEIRS! 
Up,  your  banner  leads  the  van, 

Blazoned,  "  Liberty  for  all ! " 
Finish  what  your  sires  began ! 

Up,  to  Faneuil  Hall! 


TO   MASSACHUSETTS. 

1844- 

WHAT  though  around  thee  blazes 

No  fiery  rallying  sign  ? 
From  all  thy  own  high  places, 

Give  heaven  the  light  of  thine ! 
What  though  unthrilled,  unmoving, 

The  statesman  stands  apart, 
And  comes  no  warm  approving 

From  Mammon's  crowded  mart? 

Still,  let  the  land  be  shaken 

By  a  summons  of  thine  own ! 
By  all  save  truth  forsaken, 

Why,  stand  with  that  alone ! 
Shrink  not  from  strife  unequal! 

With  the  best  is  always  hope ; 
And  ever  in  the  sequel 

God  holds  trie  right  side  up ! 

But  when,  with  tmne  uniting, 
Come  voices  long -.and  loud, 

And  far-off  hills  are  writing 
Thy  fire-words  on  the  cloud  ; 


THE   PINE-TREE. 


When  from  Penobscot's  fountains 
A  deep  response  is  heard, 

And  across  the  Western  mountains 
Rolls  back  thy  rallying  word  ; 

Shall  thy  line  of  battle  falter, 

With  its  allies  just  in  view  ? 
O,  by  hearth  and  holy  altar, 

My  fatherland,  be  true! 
Fling  abroad  thy  scrolls  of  Freedom ! 

Speed  them  onward  far  and  fast! 
Over  hill  and  valley  speed  them, 

Like  the  sibyl's  on  the  blast! 

Lo!  the  Empire  State  is  shaking 
The  shackles  from  her  hand  ; 


With  the  rugged  North  is  waking 

The  level  sunset  land ! 
On  they  come,  —  the  free  battalions! 

East   and   West   and   North    they 

come, 
And  the  heart-beat  of  the  millions 

Is  the  beat  of  Freedom's  drum. 

"  To  the  tyrant's  plot  no  favor ! 

No  heed  to  place-fed  knaves ! 
Bar  and  bolt  the  door  forever 

Against  the  land  of  slaves!" 
Hear  it,  mother  Earth,  and  hear  it, 

The  Heavens  above  us  spread ! 
The  land  is  roused,  —  its  spirit 

Was  sleeping,  but  not  dead ! 


THE   PINE-TREE. 

1846. 

LIFT  again  the  stately  emblem  on  the  Bay  State's  rusted  shield, 
Give  to  Northern  winds  the  Pine-Tree  on  our  banner's  tattered  field. 
Sons  of  men  who  sat  in  council  with  their  Bibles  round  the  board, 
Answering  England's  royal  missive  with  a  firm,  "THUS  SAITH  THE  LORD!" 
Rise  again  for  home  and  freedom!  —  set  the  battle  in  array!  — 
What  the  fathers  did  of  old  time  we  their  sons  must  do  to-day. 

Tell  us  not  of  banks  and  tariffs,  —  cease  your  paltry  pedler  cries,  — 
Shall  the  good  State  sink  her  honor  that  your  gambling  stocks  may  rise? 
Would  ye  barter  man  for  cotton?  —  That  your  gains  may  sum  up  higher, 
Must  we  kiss  the  feet  of  Moloch,  pass  our  children  through  the  fire? 
Is  the  dollar  only  real?  —  God  and  truth  and  right  a  dream? 
Weighed  against  your  lying  ledgers  must  our  manhood  kick  the  beam  ? 

O  my  God!  —  for  that  free  spirit,  which  of  old  in  Boston  town 
Smote  the  Province  House  with  terror,  struck  the  crest  of  Andros  down!  — 
For  another  strong-voiced  Adams  in  the  city's  streets  to  cry, 
"  Up  for  God  and  Massachusetts! —  Set  your  feet  on  Mammon's  lie! 
Perish  banks  and  perish  traffic,  —  spin  your  cotton's  latest  pound, — 
But  in  Heaven's  name  keep  your  honor,  — keep  the  heart  o'  the  Bay  State 
sound!" 

Where 's  the  MAN  for  Massachusetts  ?  —  Where 's  the  voice  to  speak  her  free  ?  — • 
Where's  the  hand  to  light  up  bonfires  from  her  mountains  to  the  sea? 
Beats  her  Pilgrim  pulse  no  longer?  —  Sits  she  dumb  in  her  despair?  — 
Has  she  none  to  break  the  silence  ?  —  Has  she  none  to  do  and  dare  ? 
O  my  God!  for  one  right  worthy  to  lift  up  her  rusted  shield, 
And  to  plant  again  the  Pine-Tree  in  her  banner's  tattered  field! 


VOICES   OF   FREEDOM. 


LINES, 

SUGGESTED  BY  A  VISIT  TO  THE  CITY 
OF  WASHINGTON,  IN  THE  I2TH 
MONTH  OF  1845. 

WITH  a  cold  and  wintry  noon-light, 

On  its  roofs  and  steeples  shed, 
Shadows  weaving  with  the  sunlight 

From  the  gray  sky  overhead, 
Broadly,  vaguely,  all  around  me,  lies 
the  half-built  town  outspread. 

Through  this  broad  street,  restless 

ever, 

Ebbs  and  flows  a  human  tide, 
Wave  on  wave  a  living  river ; 

Wealth  and  fashion  side  by  side  ; 
Toiler,  idler,,  slave  and  master,  in  the 
same  quick  current  glide. 

Underneath  yon  dome,  whose  cop- 
ing 

Springs  above  them,  vast  and  tall, 

Grave  men  in  the  dust  are  groping 

For  the  largess,  base  and  small, 

Which  the  hand  of  Power  is  scattering, 

crumbs  which  from  its  table  fall . 

Base  of  heart !     They  vilely  barter 

Honor's  wealth  for  party's  place  : 

Step  by  step  on  Freedom's  charter 

Leaving  footprints  of  disgrace  ; 
For  to-day's   poor    pittance   turning 
from  the  great   hope   of  their 
race. 

Yet,  where  festal  lamps  are  throwing 

Glory  round  the  dancer's  hair, 
Gold-tressed,  like  an  angel's,  flowing 

Backward  on  the  sunset  air  ; 
And   the  low   quick   pulse  of  music 
beats  its  measures  sweet  and 
rare: 

There     to-night     shall      woman's 

glances, 

Star-like,  welcome  give  to  them, 
Fawning  fools  with  shy  advances 


Seek   to   touch    their   garments' 

hem, 

With  the  tongue  of  flattery  glozing 
deeds  which  God  and  Truth 
condemn. 

From  this  glittering  lie  my  vision 
Takes  a  broader,  sadder  range, 
Full  before  me  have  arisen 

Other  pictures  dark  and  strange  ; 

From   the  parlor  to  the  prison  must 

the  scene  and  witness  change. 

Hark!  the  heavy  gate  is  swinging 
On  its  hinges,  harsh  and  slow ; 
One  pale  prison  lamp  is  flinging 

On  a  fearful  group  below 
Such  a  light  as  leaves  to  terror  what- 
soe'er it  does  not  show. 

Pitying  God  !  —  Is  that  a  WOMAN 
On   whose  wrist    the     shackles 

clash? 

Is  that  shriek  she  utters  human, 
Underneath  the  stinging  lash? 
Are  they  MEN  whose  eyes  of  madness 
from  that  sad  procession  flash  ? 

Still  the  dance  goes  gayly  onward! 

What  is  it  to  Wealth  and  Pride 
That  without  the  stars  are  looking 
On  a  scene  which  earth  should 

hide? 

That  the  SLAVE-SHIP  lies  in  waiting, 
rocking  on  Potomac's  tide ! 

Vainly  to  that  mean  Ambition 

Which,  upon  a  rival's  fall, 
Winds  above  its  old  condition, 

With  a  reptile's  slimy  crawl, 
Shall  the  pleading  voice  of  sorrow, 
shall  the  slave  in  anguish  call. 

Vainly  to  the  child  of  Fashion, 

Giving  to  ideal  woe 
Graceful  luxury  of  compassion, 

Shall  the  stricken  mourner  go  ; 
Hateful   seems   the   earnest    sorrow, 
beautiful  the  hollow  show! 


LINES. 


89 


Nay,  my  words  are  all  too  sweep- 
ing : 

In  this  crowded  human  mart, 
Feeling  is  not  dead,  but  sleeping ; 
Man's  strong  will  and  woman's 

heart, 

In  the  coming  strife  for  Freedom,  yet 
shall  bear  their  generous  part. 

And  from  yonder  sunny  valleys, 

Southward  in  the  distance  lost, 
Freedom  yet  shall  summon  allies 
Worthier  than    the    North    can 

boast, 

With  the  Evil  by  their  hearth-stones 
grappling  at  severer  cost. 

Now,  the  soul  alone  is  willing : 
Faint  the   heart   and   weak   the 

knee ; 
And  as  yet  no  lip  is  thrilling 

With    the  mighty  words,    "BE 

FREE!" 

Tarrieth  long  the  land's  Good  Angel, 
but  his  advent  is  to  be ! 

Meanwhile,  turning  from  the  revel 

To  the  prison-cell  my  sight, 
For  intenser  hate  of  evil, 

For  a  keener  sense  of  right, 
Shaking  off  thy  dust,  I  thank  thee, 
City  of  the  Slaves,  to-night! 

"  To  thy  duty  now  and  ever ! 

Dream  no  more  of  rest  or  stay ; 
Give  to  Freedom's  great  endeavor 

All  thou  art  and  hast  to-day  "  : 
Thus,  above  the  city's  murmur,  saith 
a  Voice,  or  seems  to  say. 

Ye  with  heart  and  vision  gifted 
To  discern  and  love  the  right, 
Whose  worn  faces  have  been  lifted 

To  the  slowly-growing  light, 
Where  from  Freedom's  sunrise  drifted 
slowly     back    the     murk     of 
night!  — 

Ye  who  through  long  years  of  trial 
Still  have  held  your  purpose  fast, 


While  a  lengthening  shade  the  dial 
From    the     westering    sunshine 

cast, 

And  of  hope  each  hour's  denial  seemed 
an  echo  of  the  last!  — 

O  my  brothers!     O  my  sisters! 

Would  to  God  that  ye  were  near, 
Gazing  with  me  down  the  vistas 

Of  a  sorrow  strange  and  drear; 
Would  to  God  that  ye  were  listeners 
to  the  Voice  I  seem  to  hear! 

With  the  storm  above  us  driving, 
With  the  false  earth  mined  be- 
low,— 

Who  shall  marvel  if  thus  striving 
We  have  counted  friend  as  foe ; 
Unto  one  another  giving  in  the  dark- 
ness blow  for  blow. 

Well  it  may  be  that  our  natures 
Have  grown    sterner  and  more 

hard, 

And  the  freshness  of  their  features 
Somewhat     harsh     and     battle- 
scarred, 

And  their  harmonies  of  feeling  over- 
tasked and  rudely  jarred. 

Be  it  so.     It  should  not  swerve  us 
From  a  purpose  true  and  brave ; 
Dearer  Freedom's  rugged  service 
Than  the  pastime  of  the  slave  ; 
Better  is  the  storm  above  it  than  the 
quiet  of  the  grave. 

Let  us  then,  uniting,  bury 

All  our  idle  feuds  in  dust, 
And  to  future  conflicts  carry 

Mutual  faith  and  common  trust ; 
Always  he  who  most  forgiveth  in  his 
brother  is  most  just. 

From  the  eternal  shadow  rounding 

All  our  sun  and  starlight  here, 
Voices  of  our  lost  ones  sounding 

Bid  us  be  of  heart  and  cheer, 

Through  the  silence,  down  the  spaces, 

falling  on  the  inward  ear. 


VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 


Know  we  not  our  dead  are  looking 

Downward  with  a  sad  surprise, 
All  our  strife  of  words  rebuking 

With  their  mild  and  loving  eyes? 
Shall    we    grieve    the    holy   angels? 
Shall  we  cloud  their   blessed 
skies  ? 

Let  us  draw  their  mantles  o'er  us 
Which  have  fallen  in  our  way  ; 
Let  us  do  the  work  before  us, 

Cheerly,  bravely,  while  we  may, 
Ere  the  long   night-silence   cometh, 
and  with  us  it  is  not  day! 


LINES, 

FROM  A  LETTER  TO  A  YOUNG  CLERI- 
CAL FRIEND. 

A    STRENGTH    Thy    service    cannot 

tire,  — 
A    faith    which    doubt    can    never 

dim,— 

A  heart  of  love,  a  lip  of  fire,  — 
O    Freedom's    God!    be    thou    to 
him! 

Speak  through  him  words  of  power 

and  fear, 
As  through  thy  prophet  bards  of 

old, 
And  let  a  scornful  people  hear 

Once     more     thy     Sinai-thunders 
rolled. 

For  lying  lips  thy  blessing  seek, 
And  hands  of  blood  are  raised  to 

Thee, 
And   on   thy    children,  crushed   and 

weak, 

The  oppressor  plants  his  kneeling 
knee. 

Let  then,  O  God!  thy  servant  dare 
Thy  truth  in  all  its  power  to  tell, 

Unmask    the    priestly    thieves,   and 

tear 
The  Bible  from  the  grasp  of  hell! 


From  hollow  rite  and  narrow  span 
Of  law  and  sect  by  Thee  released, 

O,  teach  him  that  the  Christian  man 
Is  holier  than  the  Jewish  priest. 

Chase  back  the   shadows,  gray  and 

old, 

Of  the  dead  ages,  from  his  way, 
And  let  his  hopeful  eyes  behold 
The     dawn     of      thy     millennial 
day ;  — 

That   day   when    fettered   limb   and 

mind 
Shall  know  the  truth  which  maketh 

free, 

And  he  alone  who  loves  his  kind 
Shall,  childlike,  claim  the  love  of 
Thee! 

YORKTOWN. 

FROM  Yorktown's  ruins,  ranked  and 
still, 

Two  lines  stretch  far  o'er  vale  and 

hill: 

Who  curbs  his  steed  at  head  of  one? 
Hark !  the  low  murmur :  Washington ! 
Who  bends  his  keen,  approving 

glance 
Where   down   the  gorgeous   line   of 

France 
Shine    knightly   star   and   plume   of 

snow? 
Thou  too  art  victor,  Rochambeau! 

The    earth    which    bears    this    calm 

array 

Shook  with  the  war-charge  yesterday, 
Ploughed  deep  with  hurrying  hoof 

and  wheel, 
Shot-sown    and    bladed    thick   with 

steel ; 

October's  clear  and  noonday  sun 
Paled   in   the    breath-smoke   of   the 

gun> 
And  down  night's  double  blackness 

fell, 
Like  a  dropped  star,  the  blazing 

shell, 


YORKTOWN. 


Now  all  is  hushed :  the  gleaming 
lines 

Stand  moveless  as  the  neighboring 
pines ; 

While  through  them,  sullen,  grim, 
and  slow, 

The  conquered  hosts  of  England 
go: 

O'Hara's  brow  belies  his  dress, 

Gay  Tarleton's  troop  rides  banner- 
less : 

Shout,  from  thy  fired  and  wasted 
homes, 

Thy  scourge,  Virginia,  captive  comes  ! 

Nor  thou  alone  :  with  one  glad  voice 
Let  all  thy  sister  States  rejoice ; 
Let  Freedom,  in  whatever  clime 
She    waits    with    sleepless    eye    her 

time, 
Shouting  from   cave    and    mountain 

wood 

Make  glad  her  desert  solitude, 
While  they  who  hunt  her  quail  with 

fear ; 
The  New  World's  chain  lies  broken 

here ! 

But   who   are   they,   who,   cowering, 

wait 

Within  the  shattered  fortress  gate? 
Dark  tillers  of  Virginia's  soil. 
Classed   with    the    battle's    common 

spoil, 
With  household  stuffs,  and  fowl,  and 

swine, 

With  Indian  weed  and  planters1  wine, 
With     stolen    beeves,    and     foraged 

corn, — 
Are  they  not  men,  Virginian  born? 

O,  veil  your  faces,  young  and  brave! 
Sleep,  Scammel,  in  thy  soldier  grave! 
Sons  of  the  Northland,  ye  who  set 
Stout  hearts  against  the  bayonet. 
And  pressed  with  steady  footfall  near 
The  moated  battery's  blazing  tier, 
Turn    your    scarred   faces   from   the 

sight, 
Let  shame  do  homage  to  the  right! 


Lo!    threescore   years    have   passed; 

and  where 

The  Gallic  timbrel  stirred  the  air, 
With    Northern    drum-roll,    and   the 

clear, 

Wild  horn-blow  of  the  mountaineer, 
While  Britain  grounded  on  that  plain 
The  arms  she  might  not  lift  again, 
As  abject  as  in  that  old  day 
The  slave  still  toils  his  life  away. 


O,  fields  still  green  and  fresh  in  story, 
Old    clays    of    pride,    old    names    of 

glory, 

Old  marvels  of  the  tongue  and  pen, 
Old  thoughts  which  stirred  the  hearts 

of  men, 

Ye  spared  the  wrong ;  and  over  all 
Behold  the  avenging  shadow  fall! 
Your  world-wide  honor  stained  with 

shame,  — 
Your  freedom's  self  a  hollow  name ! 


Where 's    now  the   flag   of  that   old 

war? 
Where    flows    its    stripe?       Where 

burns  its  star? 

Bear  witness,  Palo  Alto's  day, 
Dark  Vale  of  Palms,  red  Monterey, 
Where   Mexic  Freedom,  young  and 

weak, 

Fleshes  the  Northern  eagle's  beak : 
Symbol  of  terror  and  despair, 
Of    chains    and    slaves,   go    seek   it 

there ! 


Laugh,  Prussia,  midst  thy  iron  ranks! 

Laugh,  Russia,  from  thy  Neva's 
banks! 

Brave  sport  to  see  the  fledgling  born 

Of  Freedom  by  its  parent  torn! 

Safe  now  is  Speilberg's  dungeon 
cell, 

Safe  drear  Siberia's  frozen  hell : 

With  Slavery's  flag  o'er  both  un- 
rolled, 

What  of  the  New  World  fears  the 
Old? 


VOICES   OF   FREEDOM. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  IN  THE  BOOK  OF  A  FRIEND. 

ON  page  of  thine  I  cannot  trace 
The    cold    and    heartless    common- 
place, — 
A  statue's  fixed  and  marble  grace. 

For  ever  as  these  lines  I  penned, 
Still  with  the  thought  of  thee  will 

blend 
That   of   some   loved  and   common 

friend,  — 

Who  in  life's  desert  track  has  made 
His    pilgrim     tent    with     mine,    or 

strayed 
Beneath      the      same      remembered 

shade. 

And  hence  my  pen  unfettered  moves 
In    freedom     which    the    heart    ap- 
proves, — 

The     negligence     which     friendship 
loves. 

And  wilt  thou  prize  my  poor  gift  less 
For  simple  air  and  rustic  dress, 
And  sign  of  haste  and  carelessness  ?  — 

O,  more  than  specious  counterfeit 

Of  sentiment  or  studied  wit, 

A  heart  like  thine  should  value  it. 

Yet  half  I  fear  my  gift  will  be 
Unto  thy  book,  if  not  to  thee, 
Of  more  than  doubtful  courtesy. 

A    banished    name    from    fashion's 

sphere, 

A  lay  unheard  of  Beauty's  ear, 
Forbid,    disowned,  —  what    do    they 

here  ?  — 

Upon  my  ear  not  all  in  vain 

Came    the    sad    captive's     clanking 

chain,  — 
The  groaning  from  his  bed  of  pain. 


And  sadder  still,  I  saw  the  woe 
Which  only  wounded  spirits  know 
When  Pride's   strong   footsteps   o'er 
them  go. 

Spurned  not  alone  in  walks  abroad, 
But  from  the  "  temples  of  the  Lord  " 
Thrust  out  apart,  like  things  abhorred. 

Deep  as  I  felt,  and  stern  and  strong, 
In  words  which  Prudence  smothered 

long, 
My  soul  spoke  out  against  the  wrong  ; 

Not  mine  alone  the  task  to  speak 
Of  comfort  to  the  poor  and  weak, 
And  dry  the  tear  on  Sorrow's  cheek ; 

But,  mingled  in  the  conflict  warm, 
To  pour  the  fiery  breath  of  storm 
Through  the  harsh  trumpet  of  Reform  ; 

To  brave  Opinion's  settled  frown, 
From  ermined  robe  and  saintly  gown, 
While    wrestling    reverenced    Error 
down. 

Founts  gushed  beside  my  pilgrim  way, 
Cool  shadows  on  the  greensward  lay, 
Flowers   swung    upon    the    bending 
spray. 

And,  broad  and  bright,  on  either  hand, 
Stretched  the  green  slopes  of  Fairy- 
land, 
With  Hope's  eternal  sunbow  spanned  ; 

Whence  voices  called  me  like  the  flow, 
Which  on  the  listener's  .ear  will  grow, 
Of  forest  streamlets  soft  and  low. 

And  gentle  eyes,  which  still  retain 
Their  picture  on  the  heart  and  brain, 
Smiled,  beckoning  from  that  path  of 
pain. 

In  vain!  —  nor  dream,  nor   rest,  nor 

pause 

Remain  for  him  who  round  him  draws 
The  battered  mail  of  Freedom's  cause. 


LINES. 


93 


From   youthful    hopes, — from    each 

green  spot 
Of     young     Romance,     and     gentle 

Thought, 
Where  storm  and  tumult  enter  not,  — 

From  each  fair  altar,  where  belong 
The  offerings  Love  requires  of  Song 
In  homage  to  her  bright-eyed  throng, — 

With  soul  and  strength,  with   heart 

and  hand, 
I    turned    to    Freedom's    struggling 

band, — 
To  the  sad  Helots  of  our  land. 

What  marvel  then  that  Fame  should 

turn 

Her  notes  of  praise  to  those  of  scorn, — 
Hergifts  reclaimed,  —  her  smiles  with- 
drawn? 

What  matters  it!  —  a  few  years  more, 
Life's  surge  so  restless  heretofore 
Shall  break  upon  the  unknown  shore! 

In  that  far  land  shall  disappear 

The  shadows  which  we  follow  here, — 

The  mist-wreaths  of  our  atmosphere ! 

Before  no  work  of  mortal  hand, 
Of  human  will  or  strength  expand 
The  pearl  gates  of  the  Better  Land ; 

Alone  in  that  great  love  which  gave 
Life  to  the  sleeper  of  the  grave, 
Resteth  the  power  to  "  seek  and  save." 

Yet,  if  the  spirit  gazing  through 

The  vista  of  the  past  can  view 

One  deed  to  Heaven  and  virtue  true, — 

If  through  the  wreck  of  wasted  powers, 
Of  garlands   wreathed    from    Folly's 

bowers, 
Of  idle  aims  and  misspent  hours, — 

The  eye  can  note  one  sacred  spot 
By  Pride  and  Self  profaned  not,  — 


A    green    place     in     the    waste     of 
thought,  — 

Where  deed  or  word  hath  rendered 

less 

"  The  sum  of  human  wretchedness," 
And  Gratitude  looks  forth  to  bless,  — 

The  simple  burst  of  tenderest  feeling 
From  sad  hearts  worn  by  evil-dealing, 
For  blessing  on  the  hand  of  healing,  — 

Better  than  Glory's  pomp  will  be 
That  green  and  blessed  spot  to  me,  — 
A  palm-shade  in  Eternity!  — 

Something  of  Time  which  may  invite 
The  purified  and  spiritual  sight 
To  rest  on  with  a  calm  delight. 

And  when  the   summer  winds   shall 

sweep 
With  their  light  wings  my  place  of 

sleep, 
And  mosses  round  my  headstone 

creep,  — 


If  still,  as  Freedom's  rallying  sign, 
Upon  the  young  heart's  altars  shine 
The    very    fires    they    caught    from 


If  words  my  lips  once  uttered  still, 
In  the  calm  faith  and  steadfast  will 
Of  other  hearts,  their  work  fulfil, — 

Perchance  with  joy  the  soul  may  learn 
These  tokens,  and  its  eye  discern 
The  fires  which  on  those  altars  burn,  — 

A  marvellous  joy  that  even  then, 

The  spirit  hath  its  life  again, 

In  the  strong  hearts  of  mortal  men. 

Take,  lady,  then,  the  gift  I  bring, 

No  gay  and  graceful  offering, — 

No  flower-smile  of  the  laughing  spring. 

Midst  the  green  buds  of  Youth's  fresh 
May, 


94 


VOICES   OF   FREEDOM. 


With  Fancy's  leaf-enwoven  bay, 
My  sad  and  sombre  gift  I  lay. 

And  if  it  deepens  in  thy  mind 

A  sense  of  suffering  human-kind, — 

The  outcast  and  the  spirit-blind  : 

Oppressed  and  spoiled  on  every  side, 
By  Prejudice,  and  Scorn,  and  Pride, 
Life's  common  courtesies  denied  ; 

Sad  mothers  mourning  o'er  their  trust, 
Children  by  want  and  misery  nursed, 
Tasting  life's  bitter  cup  at  first ; 

If  to  their  strong  appeals  which  come 
From  fireless  hearth,  and  crowded 

room, 
And  the  close  alley's  noisome  gloom, — 

Though  dark  the  hands  upraised  to 
thee 

In  mute  beseeching  agony, 

Thou  lend'st  thy  woman's  sympa- 
thy, - 

Not  vainly  on  thy  gentle  shrine, 
Where  Love,  and  Mirth,  and  Friend- 
ship twine 
Their  varied  gifts,  I  offer  mine. 


1848. 

Now.  joy  and  thanks  forevermore ! 

The    dreary    night    has    wellnigh 

passed, 
The  slumbers  of  the  North  are  o'er,  — 

The  Giant  stands  erect  at  last! 

More  than  we  hoped  in  that  dark  time, 
When,  faint  with  watching,  few  and 
worn, 

We  saw  no  welcome  day-star  climb 
The  cold  gray  pathway  of  the  morn ! 

O  weary  hours!  O  night  of  years! 
What  storms  our  darkling  pathway 
swept, 


Where,  beating  back  our  thronging 

fears, 
By  Faith  alone  our  march  we  kept. 

How  jeered  the  scoffing  crpwd  behind, 
How  mocked  before  the  tyrant  train, 

As,  one  by  one,  the  true  and  kind 
Fell  fainting  in  our  path  of  pain ! 

They  died,  —  their  brave  hearts  break- 
ing slow, — 

But,  self-forgetful  to  the  last, 
In  words  of  cheer  and  bugle  blow 
Their   breath   upon    the    darkness 
passed. 

A  mighty  host,  on  either  hand, 
Stood  waiting  for  the  dawn  of  day 

To  crush  like  reeds  our  feeble  band  ; 
The  morn  has  come,  —  and  where 
are  they? 

Troop  after  troop  their  line  forsakes  ; 
With  peace-white  banners  waving 

free, 
And  from  our  own   the   glad   shout 

breaks, 
Of  Freedom  and  Fraternity ! 

Like  mist  before  the  growing  light, 
The  hostile  cohorts  melt  away ; 

Our  frowning  foemen  of  the  night 
Are  brothers  at  the  dawn  of  day ! 

As  unto  these  repentant  ones 

We  open  wide  our  toil-worn  ranks, 

Along  our  line  a  murmur  runs 

Of  song,  and   praise,  and  grateful 
thanks. 

Sound  for  the  onset !  —  Blast  on  blast ! 

Till   Slavery's    minions   cower  and 

quail ; 
One  charge  of  fire  shall  drive  them  fast 

Like  chaff  before  our  Northern  gale ! 

O  prisoners  in  your  house  of  pain, 
Dumb,  toiling  millions,  bound  and 
sold, 


TO  THE   MEMORY   OF  THOMAS   SHIPLEY. 


''5 


Look !  stretched  o'er   Southern   vale 

and  plain, 
The  Lord's  delivering  hand  behold ! 

Above  the  tyrant's  pride  of  power, 
His  iron  gates  and  guarded  wall, 

The   bolts  which    shattered  Shinar's 

tower 
Hang,  smoking,  for  a  fiercer  fall. 

Awake !  awake !  my  Fatherland ! 

It  is  thy  Northern  light  that  shines  ; 
This  stirring  march  of  Freedom's  band 

The   storm-song   of  thy  mountain 

pines. 

Wake,  dwellers  where  the  day  expires ! 

And  hear,  in  winds  that  sweep  your 

lakes 
And  fan  your  prairies1  roaring  fires, 

The  signal-call  that  Freedom  makes ! 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS 
SHIPLEY. 

GONE  to  thy  Heavenly  Father's  rest! 

The  flowers  of  Eden  round   thee 

blowing, 
And  on  thine  ear  the  murmurs  blest 

Of  Siloa's  waters  softly  flowing! 
Beneath  that  Tree  of  Life  which  gives 
To  all  the  earth  its  healing  leaves 
In  the  white  robe  of  angels  clad, 

And  wandering  by  that  sacred  river, 
Whose  streams  of  holiness  make  glad 

The  city  of  our  God  forever! 

Gentlest  of  spirits !  —  not  for  thee 
Our  tears  are  shed,  our  sighs  are 
given  ; 

Why  mourn  to  know  thou  art  a  free 
Partaker  of  the  joys  of  Heaven? 

Finished  thy  work,  and  kept  thy  faith 

In  Christian  firmness  unto  death  ; 

And  beautiful  as  sky  and  earth, 

When  autumn's  sun  is   downward 
going, 

The  blessed  memory  of  thy  worth 


Around  thy  place  of  slumber  glow- 


ing! 


But  woe  for  us!  who  linger  still 

With  feebler  strength  and  hearts  less 

lowly, 
And  minds  less  steadfast  to  the  will 

Of  Him  whose  every  work  is  holy. 
For  not  like  thine,  is  crucified 
The  spirit  of  our  human  pride  : 
And  at  the  bondman's  tale  of  woe, 

And  for  the  outcast  and  forsaken, 
Not  warm  like  thine,  but  cold  and  slow, 

Our  weaker  sympathies  awaken. 

Darkly  upon  our  struggling  way 

The  storm  of  human  hate  is  sweep- 
ing ; 
Hunted  and  branded,  and  a  prey, 

Our   watch    amidst    the    darkness 

keeping, 

O  for  that  hidden  strength  which  can 
Nerve  unto  death  the  inner  mail! 
O  for  thy  spirit,  tried  and  true. 

And  constant  in  the  hour  of  trial, 
Prepare  to  suffer,  or  to  do, 

In  meekness  and  in  self-denial. 

O  for  that  spirit,  meek  and  mild, 
Derided,  spurned,  yet  uncomplain- 
ing?— 

By  man  deserted  and  reviled, 

Yet  faithful  to  its  trust  remaining. 

Still  prompt  and  resolute  to  save 

From  scourge  and  chain  the  hunted 
slave ; 

Unwavering  in  the  Truth's  defence, 
Even  where  the  fires  of  Hate  were 
burning, 

The  unquailing  eye  of  innocence 
Alone  upon  the  oppressor  turning! 

O  loved  of  thousands !  to  thy  grave, 
Sorrowing  of  heart,  thy  brethren  bore 

thee. 

The  poor  man  and  the  rescued  slave 
Wept   as   the  broken  earth  closed 

o'er  thee ; 

And  grateful  tears,  like  summer  rain, 
Quickened  its  dying  grass  again ! 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


And  there,  as  to  some  pilgrim-shrine, 
Shall  come  the  outcast  and  the  lowly, 

Of  gentle  deeds  and  words  of  thine 
Recalling  memories  sweet  and  holy ! 

O  for  the  death  the  righteous  die ! 

An  end,  like  autumn's  day  declining, 
On  human  hearts,  as  on  the  sky, 

With  holier,  tenderer  beauty  shin- 
ing; 

As  to  the  parting  soul  were  given 
The  radiance  of  an  opening  Heaven! 
As  if  that  pure  and  blessed  light, 

From  off  the  Eternal  altar  flowing, 
Were  bathing,  in  its  upward  flight, 

The  spirit  to  its  worship  going! 


TO  A  SOUTHERN  STATESMAN. 
1846. 

Is  this  thy  voice,  whose  treble  notes 

of  fear 
Wail   in  the  wind?     And  dost  thou 

shake  to  hear, 
Actaeon-like,   the   bay   of  thine  own 

hounds, 
Spurning  the  leash,  and  leaping  o'er 

their  bounds? 
Sore-baffled     statesman!    when     thy 

eager  hand, 

With  game  afoot,  unslipped  the  hun- 
gry pack, 
To  hunt  down  Freedom  in  her  chosen 

land, 
Hadst    thou    no   fear,    that,   erelong, 

doubling  back, 
These  dogs  of  thine  might  snuff  on 

Slavery's  track  ? 
Where's  now  the  boast,  which  even 

thy  guarded  tongue, 
Cold,  calm,  and  proud,  in  the  teeth  o' 

the  Senate  flung, 

O'er  the  fulfilment  of  thy  baleful  plan, 
Like   Satan's   triumph   at  the  fall  of 

man  ? 
How  stood'st  thou  then,  thy  feet  on 

Freedom  planting, 


And  pointing  to  the  lurid  heaven  afar, 
Whence  all   could   see,   through   the 

south  windows  slanting, 
Crimson  as  blood,  the  beams  of  that 

Lone  Star! 
The  Fates  are  just ;  they  give  us  but 

our  own ; 
Nemesis  ripens  what  our  hands  have 

sown. 

There  is  an  Eastern   story,  not  un- 
known, 
Doubtless,    to    thee,    of   one    whose 

magic  skill 

Called  demons  up  his  water-jars  to  fill ; 
Deftly  and  silently,  they  did  his  will, 
But,  when  the   task  was   done,  kept 

pouring  still, 

In  vain  with  spell  and  charm  the  wiz- 
ard wrought, 
Faster  and   faster  were  the  buckets 

brought, 
Higher  and  higher  rose    the    flood 

around, 
Till   the   fiends  clapped   their  hands 

above  their  master  drowned! 
So,    Carolinian,    it    may   prove   with 

thee, 
For  God  still  overrules  man's  schemes, 

and  takes 
Craftiness   in   its   self-set  snare,  and 

makes 
The  wrath  of  man  to  praise  Him.     It 

may  be, 

That  the  roused  spirits  of  Democracy 
May  leave  to   freer  States  the  same 

wide  door 
Through  which  thy  slave-cursed  Texas 

entered  in, 
From    out   the    blood   and    fire,    the 

wrong  and  sin, 
Of  the  stormed  city  and  the  ghastly 

plain, 
Beat  by  hot  hail,  and  wet  with  bloody 

rain, 
A    myriad-handed    Aztec    host    may 

pour, 
And  swarthy  South  with  pallid  North 

combine 
Back   on    thyself    to    turn   thy    dark 

design. 


LINES. 


97 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  ON  THE  ADOPTION  OF 
PINCKNEY'S  RESOLUTIONS,  IN  THE 
HOUSE  OF  REPRESENTATIVES,  AND 

THE  PASSAGE  OF  CALHOUN'S  "BILL 
FOR  EXCLUDING  PAPERS  WRITTEN 
OR  PRINTED,  TOUCHING  THE  SUB- 
JECT OF  SLAVERY  FROM  THE  U.S. 
POST-OFFICE,1'  IN  THE  SENATE  OF 
THE  UNITED  STATES. 

MEN  of  the  North-land !  where  's  the 

manly  spirit 

Of  the  true-hearted   and   the    un- 
shackled gone? 

Sons  of  old  freemen,  do  we  but  inherit 
Their  names  alone? 

Is  the   old    Pilgrim    spirit   quenched 

within  us, 
Stoops  the  strong  manhood  of  our 

souls  so  low, 

That  Mammon's  lure  or  Party's  wile 
can  win  us 

To  silence  now? 

Now,  when  our  land  to  ruin's  brink  is 

verging, 
In  God's  name,  let  us  speak  while 

there  is  time! 

Now,  when  the  padlocks  for  our  lips 
are  forging, 

Silence  is  crime! 

What!  shall   we   henceforth   humbly 

ask  as  favors 
Rights  all  our  own?     In   madness 

shall  we  barter, 

For  treacherous   peace,  the   freedom 
Nature  gave  us, 

God  and  our  charter  ? 

Here  shall    the    statesman    forge  his 

human  fetters, 
Here  the  false  jurist  human  rights 

deny, 

And,  in  the  church,  their  proud  and 
skilled  abettors 

Make  truth  a  lie? 


Torture   the   pages   of  the   hallowed 

Bible, 
To  sanction   crime,   and   robbery, 

and  blood? 

And,  in  Oppression's  hateful  service, 
libel 

Both  man  and  God? 

Shall  our  New  England  stand  erect 

no  longer, 

But  stoop  in  chains  upon  her  down- 
ward way, 

Thicker  to  gather  on  her  limbs  and 
stronger 

Day  after  day? 

O   no ;  methinks   from   all  her  wild, 

green  mountains,  — 
From  valleys  where  her  slumbering 

fathers  lie,  — 

From  her  blue  rivers  and  her  welling 
fountains, 

And  clear,  cold  sky,  — 

From  her  rough  coast,  and  isles,  which 

hungry  Ocean 
Gnaws  with  his  surges,  —  from  the 

fisher's  skiff, 

With  white   sail  swaying  to  the  bil- 
lows' motion 

Round  rock  and  cliff,  — 

From  the  free  fireside  of  her  unbought 

farmer,  — 
From  her  free  laborer  at  his  loom 

and  wheel, — 

From  the  brown  smith-shop,  where, 
beneath  the  hammer, 

Rings  the  red  steel,  — 

From  each  and  all,  if  God  hath  not 

forsaken 
Our   land,    and   left   us  to  an  evil 

choice, 

Loud  as  the  summer  thunderbolt  shall 
waken 

A  People's  voice. 

Startling  and   stern!    the    Northern 

winds  shall  bear  it 
Over  Potomac's  to  St.  Mary's  wave  ; 


98 


VOICES   OF   FREEDOM. 


And  buried  Freedom  shall  awake  to 
hear  it 

Within  her  grave. 

O,  let  that  voice  go  forth !     The  bond- 
man sighing 
By  Santee's  wave,  in  Mississippi's 

cane, 

Shall  feel  the  hope,  within  his  bosom 
dying, 

Revive  again. 

Let  it  go  forth !     The  millions   who 

are  gazing 

Sadly  upon  us  from  afar,  shall  smile, 
And  unto  God  devout  thanksgiving 
raising, 

Bless  us  the  while. 

O  for  your  ancient  freedom,  pure  and 

holy, 
For  the  deliverance  of  a  groaning 

earth, 
For  the  wronged   captive,   bleeding, 


crushed,  and  low 


f 

y, 


Let  it  go  forth ! 


Sons  of  the  best  of  fathers!  will  ye 

falter 
With  all  they  left  ye  perilled   and 

at  stake? 

Ho!  once  again  on   Freedom's  holy 
altar 

The  fire  awake ! 

Prayer-strengthened  for  the  trial,  come 

together, 
Put  on  the  harness  for  the  moral 

fight, 

And,  with  the  blessing  of  your  Heav- 
enly Father, 

MAINTAIN  THE  RIGHT  ! 


THE  CURSE  OF  THE  CHAR- 
TER-BREAKERS. 

IN  Westminster's  royal  halls, 
Robed  in  their  pontificals, 
England's  ancient  prelates  stood 
For  the  people's  right  and  good. 


Closed  around  the  waiting  crowd, 
Dark  and  still,  like  winter's  cloud ; 
King  and  council,  lord  and  knight, 
Squire  and  yeoman,  stood  in  sight,  — 

Stood  to  hear  the  priest  rehearse, 
In  God's  name,  the  Church's  curse, 
By  the  tapers  round  them  lit, 
Slowly,  sternly  uttering  it. 

"  Right  of  voice  in  framing  laws, 
Right  of  peers  to  try  each  cause  ; 
Peasant  homestead,  mean  and  small, 
Sacred  as  the  monarch's  hall,  — 

"  Whoso  lays  his  hand  on  these, 
England's  ancient  liberties,— 
Whoso  breaks,  by  word  or  deed, 
England's  vow  at  Runnymede, — 

"  Be  he  Prince  or  belted  knight. 
Whatsoe'er  his  rank  or  might, 
If  the  highest,  then  the  worst, 
Let  him  live  and  die  accursed. 

"  Thou,  who  to  thy  Church  hast  given 
Keys  alike,  of  hell  and  heaven, 
Make  our  word  and  witness  sure, 
Let  the  curse  we  speak  endure ! " 

Silent,  while  that  curse  was  said, 
Every  bare  and  listening  head 
Bowed  in  reverent  awe,  and  then 
All  the  people  said,  Amen ! 

Seven  times  the  bells  have  tolled, 
For  the  centuries  gray  and  old, 
Since  that  stoled  and  mitred  band 
Cursed  the  tyrants  of  their  land. 

Since  the  priesthood,  like  a  tower, 
Stood  between  the  poor  and  power ; 
And  the  wronged  and  trodden  down 
Blessed  the  abbot's  shaven  crown. 

Gone,  thank  God,  their  wizard  spell, 
Lost,  their  keys  of  heaven  and  hell ; 
Yet  I  sigh  for  men  as  bold 
As  those  bearded  priests  of  old. 


THE   SLAVES   OF   MARTINIQUE. 


99 


Now,  too  oft  the  priesthood  wait 
At  the  threshold  of  the  state, — 
Waiting  for  the  beck  and  nod 
Of  its  power  as  law  and  God. 

Fraud  exults,  while  solemn  words 
Sanctify  his  stolen  hoards  ; 
Slavery  laughs,  while  ghostly  lips 
Bless  his  manacles  and  whips. 

Not  on  them  the  poor  rely, 
Not  to  them  looks  liberty, 
Who  with  fawning  falsehood  cower 
To   the   wrong,    when    clothed   with 
power. 

O,  to  see  them  meanly  cling, 
Round  the  master,  round  the  king, 
Sported  with,  and  sold  and  bought,  — 
Pitifuller  sight  is  not ! 

Tell  me  not  that  this  must  be  : 
God's  true  priest  is  always  free ; 
Free,  the  needed  truth  to  speak, 
Right  the  wronged,  and  raise  the  weak. 

Not  to  fawn  on  wealth  and  state, 
Leaving  Lazarus  at  the  gate,  — 
Not  to  peddle  creeds  like  wares,  — 
Not  to  mutter  hireling  prayers,  — 

Nor  to  paint  the  new  life's  bliss 
On  the  sable  ground  of  this, — 
Golden  streets  for  idle  knave, 
Sabbath  rest  for  weary  slave ! 


Not  for  words  and  works  like  these, 
Priest  of  God,  thy  mission  is  ; 
But  to  make  earth's  desert  glad, 
In  its  Eden  greenness  clad ; 

And  to  level  manhood  bring 
Lord  and  peasant,  serf  and  king ; 
And  the  Christ  of  God  to  find 
In  the  humblest  of  thy  kind ! 

Thine  to  work  as  well  as  pray, 
Clearing  thorny  wrongs  away  ; 
Plucking  up  the  weeds  of  sin, 
Letting  Heaven's  warm  sunshine  in,- 

Watching  on  the  hills  of  Faith  ; 
Listening  what  the  spirit  saith, 
Of  the  dim-seen  light  afar, 
Growing  like  a  nearing  star. 

God's  interpreter  art  thou, 
To  the  waiting  ones  below ; 
'Twixt  them  and  its  light  midway 
Heralding  the  better  day,— 

Catching  gleams  of  temple  spires, 
Hearing  notes  of  angel  choirs, 
Where,  as  yet  unseen  of  them, 
Comes  the  New  Jerusalem ! 

Like  the  seer  of  Patmos  gazing, 
On  the  glory  downward  blazing; 
Till  upon  Earth's  grateful  sod 
Rests  the  City  of  our  God ! 


THE    SLAVES    OF   MARTINIQUE. 

SUGGESTED   BY   A   DAGUERREOTYPE   FROM   A   FRENCH   ENGRAVING. 

BEAMS  of  noon,  like  burning  lances,  through  the  tree-tops  flash  and  glisten, 
As  she  stands  before  her  lover,  with  raised  face  to  look  and  listen. 

Dark,  but  comely,  like  the  maiden  in  the  ancient  Jewish  song: 
Scarcely  has  the  toil  of  task-fields  done  her  graceful  beauty  wrong. 

He,  the  strong  one  and  the  manly,  with  the  vassal's  garb  and  hue, 
Holding  still  his  spirit's  birthright,  to  his  higher  nature  true ; 


ioo  VOICES  OF   FREEDOM. 

Hiding  deep  the  strengthening  purpose  of  a  freeman  in  his  heart, 
As  the  greegree  holds  his  Fetich  from  the  white  man's  gaze  apart. 

Ever  foremost  of  his  comrades,  when  the  driver's  morning  horn 
Calls  away  to  stifling  mill-house,  to  the  fields  of  cane  and  corn : 

Fall  the  keen  and  burning  lashes  never  on  his  back  or  limb  ; 
Scarce  with  look  or  word  of  censure,  turns  the  driver  unto  him. 

Yet,  his  brow  is  always  thoughtful,  and  his  eye  is  hard  and  stern ; 
Slavery's  last  and  humblest  lesson  he  has  never  deigned  to  learn. 

And,  at  evening,  when  his  comrades  dance  before  their  master's  door, 
Folding  arms  and  knitting  forehead,  stands  he  silent  evermore. 

God  be  praised  for  every  instinct  which  rebels  against  a  lot 

Where  the  brute  survives  the  human,  and  man's  upright  form  is  not! 

As  the  serpent-like  bejuco  winds  his  spiral  fold  on  fold 
Round  the  tall  and  stately  ceiba,  till  it  withers  in  his  hold ;  — 

Slow  decays  the  forest  monarch,  closer  girds  the  fell  embrace, 
Till  the  tree  is  seen  no  longer,  and  the  vine  is  in  its  place,  — 

So  a  base  and  bestial  nature  round  the  vassal's  manhood  twines. 
And  the  spirit  wastes  beneath  it,  like  the  ceiba  choked  with  vines. 

God  is  Love,  saith  the  Evangel ;  and  our  world  of  woe  and  sin 
Is  made  light  and  happy  only  when  a  Love  is  shining  in. 

Ye  whose  lives  are  free  as  sunshine,  finding,  wheresoe'er  ve  roam. 
Smiles  of  welcome,  looks  of  kindness,  making  all  the  world  like  home; 

In  the  veins  of  whose  affections  kindred  blood  is  but  a  part, 
Of  one  kindly  current  throbbing  from  the  universal  heart ; 

Can  ye  know  the  deeper  meaning  of  a  love  in  Slavery  nursed, 
Last  flower  of  a  lost  Eden,  blooming  in  that  Soil  accursed  ? 

Love  of  Home,  and  Love  of  Woman !  —  dear  to  all,  but  doubly  dear 
To  the  heart  whose  pulses  elsewhere  measure  only  hate  and  fear. 

All  around  the  desert' circles,  underneath  a  brazen  sky, 
Only  one  green  spot  remaining  where  the  dew  is  never  dry! 

From  the  horror  of  that  desert,  from  its  atmosphere  of  hell, 
Turns  the  fainting  spirit  thither,  as  the  diver  seeks  his  bell. 


THE   SLAVES   OF   MARTINIQUE. 


'Tis  the  fervid  tropic  noontime ;  faint  and  low  the  sea-waves  beat; 
Hazy  rise  the  inland  mountains  through  the  glimmer  of  the  heat,— 

Where,  through  mingled  leaves  and  blossoms,  arrowy  sunbeams   flash  and 

glisten, 
Speaks  her  lover  to  the  slave  girl,  and  she  lifts  her  head  to  listen :  — 

"We  shall  live  as  slaves  no  longer!     Freedom's  hour  is  close  at  hand! 
Rocks  her  bark  upon  the  waters,  rests  the  boat  upon  the  strand! 

"  I  have  seen  the  Haytien  Captain ;  I  have  seen  his  swarthy  crew, 
Haters  of  the  pallid  faces,  to  their  race  and  color  true. 

"  They  have  sworn  to  wait  our  coming  till  the  night  has  passed  its  noon, 
And  the  gray  and  darkening  waters  roll  above  the  sunken  moon! " 

0  the  blessed  hope  of  freedom !  how  with  joy  and  glad  surprise, 
For  an  instant  throbs  her  bosom,  for  an  instant  beam  her  eyes ! 

But  she  looks  across  the  valley,  where  her  mother's  hut  is  seen, 
Through  the  snowy  bloom  of  coffee,  and  the  lemon-leaves  so  green. 

And  she  answers,  sad  and  earnest :  "  It  were  wrong  for  thee  to  stay ; 
God  hath  heard  thy  prayer  for  freedom,  and  his  finger  points  the  way. 

"  Well  I  know  with  what  endurance,  for  the  sake  of  me  and  mine, 
Thou  hast  borne  too  long  a  burden  never  meant  for  souls  like  thine. 

"  Go  ;  and  at  the  hour  of  midnight,  when  our  last  farewell  is  o'er, 
Kneeling  on  our  place  of  parting,  I  will  bless  thee  from  the  shore. 

"  But  for  me,  my  mother,  lying  on  her  sick-bed  all  the  day, 

Lifts  her  weary  head  to  watch  me,  coming  through  the  twilight  gray. 

"  Should  I  leave  her  sick  and  helpless,  even  freedom,  shared  with  thee, 
Would  be  sadder  far  than  bondage,  lonely  toil,  and  stripes  to  me. 

"  For  my  heart  would  die  within  me,  and  my  brain  would  soon  be  wild ; 

1  should  hear  my  mother  calling  through  the  twilight  for  her  child!" 

Blazing  upward  from  the  ocean,  shines  the  sun  of  morning-time, 
Through  the  coffee-trees  in  blossom,  and  green  hedges  of  the  lime. 

Side  by  side,  amidst  the  slave-gang,  toil  the  lover  and  the  maid ; 
Wherefore  looks  he  o'er  the  waters,  leaning  forward  on  his  spade  ? 

Sadly  looks  he,  deeply  sighs  he :  't  is  the  Haytien's  sail  he  sees, 
Like  a  white  cloud  of  the  mountains,  driven  seaward  by  the  breeze!  " 


102  VOICES   OF   FREEDOM. 


But  his  arm  a  light  hand  presses,  and  he  hears  a  low  voice  call : 
Hate  of  Slavery,  Ijope  of  Freedom,  Love  is  mightier  than  all. 


THE   CRISIS. 

WRITTEN    ON    LEARNING    THE    TERMS    OF    THE    TREATY    WITH     MEXICO. 

ACROSS  the  Stony  Mountains,  o'er  the  desert's  drouth  and  sand, 
The  circles  of  our  empire  touch  the  Western  Ocean's  strand ; 
From  slumberous  Timpanogos,  to  Gila,  wild  and  free, 
Flowing  down  from  Nuevo-Leon  to  California's  sea ; 
And  from  the  mountains  of  the  East,  to  Santa  Rosa's  shore, 
The  eagles  of  Mexitli  shall  beat  the  air  no  more. 

O  Vale  of  Rio  Bravo !     Let  thy  simple  children  weep ; 
Close  watch  about  their  holy  fire  let  maids  of  Pecos  keep ; 
Let  Taos  send  her  cry  across  Sierra  Madre's  pines, 
And  Algodones  toll  her  bells  amidst  her  corn  and  vines ; 
For  lo!  the  pale  land-seekers  come,  with  eager  eyes  of  gain, 
Wide  scattering,  like  the  bison  herds  on  broad  Salada's  plain. 

Let  Sacramento's  herdsmen  heed  what  sound  the  wings  bring  down 

Of  footsteps  on  the  crisping  snow,  from  cold  Nevada's  crown! 

Full  hot  and  fast  the  Saxon  rides,  with  rein  of  travel  slack, 

And,  bending  o'er  his  saddle,  leaves  the  sunrise  at  his  back ; 

By  many  a  lonely  river,  and  gorge  of  fir  and  pine, 

On  many  a  wintry  hill-top,  his  nightly  camp-fires  shine. 

O  countrymen  and  brothers!  that  land  of  lake  and  plain, 

Of  salt  wastes  alternating  with  valleys  fat  with  grain ; 

Of  mountains  white  with  winter,  looking  downward,  cold,  serene, 

On  their  feet  with  spring-vines  tangled  and  lapped  in  softest  green ; 

Swift  through  whose  black  volcanic  gates,  o'er  many  a  sunny  vale, 

Wind-like  the  Arapahoe  sweeps  the  bison's  dusty  trail! 

Great  spaces  yet  untravelled,  great  lakes  whose  mystic  shores 

The  Saxon  rifle  never  heard,  nor  dip  of  Saxon  oars  ; 

Great  herds  that  wander  all  unwatched,  wild  steeds  that  none  have  tamed, 

Strange  fish  in  unknown  streams,  and  birds  the  Saxon  never  named  ; 

Deep  mines,  dark  mountain  crucibles,  where  Nature's  chemic  powers 

Work  out  the  Great  Designer's  will ;  —  all  these  ye  say  are  ours! 

Forever  ours!  for  good  or  ill,  on  us  the  burden  lies ; 

God's  balance,  watched  by  angels,  is  hung  across  the  skies. 

Shall  Justice,  Truth,  and  Freedom  turn  the  poised  and  trembling  scale? 

Or  shall  the  Evil  triumph,  and  robber  Wrong  prevail? 

Shall  the  broad  land  o'er  which  our  flag  in  starry  splendor  waves, 

Forego  through  us  its  freedom,  and  bear  the  tread  of  slaves? 


THE  CRISIS.  103 


The  day  is  breaking  in  the  East  of  which  the  prophets  told, 

And  brightens  up  the  sky  of  Time  the  Christian  Age  of  Gold ; 

Old  Might  to  Right  is  yielding,  battle  blade  to  clerkly  pen, 

Earth's  monarchs  are  her  peoples,  and  her  serfs  stand  up  as  men ; 

The  isles  rejoice  together,  in  a  day  are  nations  born, 

And  the  slave  walks  free  in  Tunis,  and  by  Stamboul's  Golden  Horn! 


Is  this,  O  countrymen  of  mine!  a  day  for  us  to  sow 

The  soil  of  new-gained  empire  with  slavery's  seeds  of  woe? 

To  feed  with  our  fresh  life-blood  the  Old  World's  cast-off  crime, 

Dropped,  like  some  monstrous  early  birth,  from  the  tired  lap  of  Time? 

To  run  anew  the  evil  race  the  old  lost  nations  ran, 

And  die  like  them  of  unbelief  of  God,  and  wrong  of  man  ? 


Great  Heaven!     Is  this  our  mission?     End  in  this  the  prayers  and  tears, 
The  toil,  the  strife,  the  watchings  of  our  younger,  better  years? 
Still  as  the  Old  World  rolls  in  light,  shall  ours  in  shadow  turn, 
A  beamless  Chaos,  cursed  of  God,  through  outer  darkness  borne? 
Where  the  far  nations  looked  for  light,  a  blackness  in  the  air? 
Where  for  words  of  hope  they  listened,  the  long  wail  of  despair? 


The  Crisis  presses  on  us  ;  face  to  face  with  us  it  stands, 

With  solemn  lips  of  question,  like  the  Sphinx  in  Egypt's  sands! 

This  day  we  fashion  Destiny,  our  web  of  Fate  we  spin ; 

This  day  for  all  hereafter  choose  we  holiness  or  sin  ; 

Even  now  from  starry  Gerizim,  or  Ebal's  cloudy  crown, 

We  call  the  dews  of  blessing  or  the  bolts  of  cursing  down! 


By  all  for  which  the  martyrs  bore  their  agony  and  shame ; 
By  all  the  warning  words  of  truth  with  which  the  prophets  came 
By  the  Future  which  awaits  us  ;  by  all  the  hopes  which  cast 
Their  faint  and  trembling  beams  across  the  blackness  of  the  Past ; 
And  by  the  blessed  thought  of  Him  who  for  Earth's  freedom  died, 
O  my  people!  O  my  brothers!  let  us  choose  the  righteous  side. 


So  shall  the  Northern  pioneer  go  joyful  on  his  way ; 

To  wed  Penobscot's  waters  to  San  Francisco's  bay ; 

To  make  the  rugged  places  smooth,  and  sow  the  vales  with  grain  ; 

And  bear,  with  Liberty  and  Law,  the  Bible  in  his  train  : 

The  mighty  West  shall  bless  the  East,  and  sea  shall  answer  sea, 

And  mountain  unto  mountain  call,  PRAISE  GOD,  FOR  WE  ARE  FREE! 


104 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE  KNIGHT  OF  ST.  JOHN. 

ERE  down  yon  blue  Carpathian  hills 

The  sun  shall  sink  again, 
Farewell  to  life  and  alf  its  ills, 

Farewell  to  cell  and  chain. 

These  prison  shades   are   dark   and 
cold,  — 

But,  darker  far  than  they, 
The  shadow  of  a  sorrow  old 

Is  on  my  heart  alway. 

For  since  the  day  when  Warkworth- 
wood 

Closed  o'er  my  steed  and  I, 
An  alien  from  my  name  and  blood, 

A  weed  cast  out  to  die,  — 

When,  looking  back  in  sunset  light, 

I  saw  her  turret  gleam, 
And  from  its  casement,  far  and  white, 

Her  sign  of  farewell  stream, 

Like    one    who,    from    some    desert 
shore, 

Doth  home's  green  isles  descry, 
And,  vainly  longing,  gazes  o'er 

The  waste  of  wave  and  sky ; 

So  from  the  desert  of  my  fate 

I  gaze  across  the  past ; 
Forever  on  life's  dial-plate 

The  shade  is  backward  cast ! 

I  Ve   wandered   wide  from  shore  to 
shore, 

I  've  knelt  at  many  a  shrine ; 
And  bowed  me  to  the  rocky  floor 

Where  Bethlehem's  tapers  shine ; 

And  by  the  Holy  Sepulchre 

I  Ve  pledged  my  knightly  sword 

To  Christ,  his  blessed  Church,  and 

her, 
The  Mother  of  our  Lord. 


O,  vain  the  vow,  and  vain  the  strife! 

How  vain  do  all  things  seem ! 
My  soul  is  in  the  past,  and  life 

To-day  is  but  a  dream ! 

In   vain    the    penance    strange   and 

long, 

And  hard  for  flesh  to  bear ; 
The    prayer,    the    fasting,    and    the 

thong 
And  sackcloth  shirt  of  hair. 

The  eyes  of  memory  will  not  sleep, — 

Its  ears  are  open  still ; 
And  vigils  with  the  past  they  keep 

Against  .my  feeble  will. 

And  still  the  loves  and  joys  of  old 

Do  evermore  uprise ; 
I  see  the  flow  of  locks  of  gold, 

The  shine  of  loving  eyes! 

Ah  me!    upon  another's  breast 
Those  golden  locks  recline  ; 

I  see  upon  another  rest 

The  glance  that  once  was  mine. 

"  O    faithless     priest !  —  O    perjured 
knight!" 

I  hear  the  Master  cry  ; 
"  Shut  out  the  vision  from  thy  sight, 

Let  Earth  and  Nature  die. 


"The   Church   of    God   is   now  thy 
spouse, 

And  thou  the  bridegroom  art ; 
Then  let  the  burden  of  thy  vows 

Crush  down  thy  human  heart!  " 

In  vain!   This  heart   its  grief  must 
know, 

Till  life  itself  hath  ceased, 
And  falls  beneath  the  selfsame  blow 

The  lover  and  the  priest ! 


PALESTINE. 


105 


O  pitying  Mother!  souls  of  light, 
And  saints,  and  martyrs  old! 

Pray  for  a  weak  and  sinful  knight, 
A  suffering  man  uphold. 

Then  let  the  Paynim  work  his  will, 
And  death  unbind  my  chain, 

Ere  down  yon  blue  Carpathian  hill 
The  sun  shall  fall  again. 


THE  HOLY  LAND. 

FROM   LAMARTINE. 

I  HAVE  not  felt,  o'er  seas  of  sand, 

The  rocking  of  the  desert  bark ; 
Nor    laved    at    Hebron's    fount    my 
hand, 

By  Hebron's  palm-trees  cool  and 

dark ; 
Nor  pitched  my  tent  at  even-fall, 

On  dust  where  Job  of  old  has  lain, 
Nor  dreamed  beneath  its  canvas  wall, 

The  dream  of  Jacob  o'er  again. 

One  vast  world-page  remains  unread  ; 
How  shine  the  stars  in  Chaldea's 

sky, 
How  sounds   the   reverent   pilgrim's 

tread, 
How  beats  the  heart  with  God  so 

riigh!  — 
How  round  gray  arch   and   column 

lone 

The  spirit  of  the  old  time  broods, 
And  sighs  in  all  the  winds  that  moan 
Along  the  sandy  solitudes ! 

In  thy  tall  cedars,  Lebanon, 

I  have  not  heard  the  nations'  cries, 
Nor  seen  thy  eagles  stooping  down 

Where  buried  Tyre  in  ruin  lies. 
The    Christian's    prayer  I    have    not 
said 

In  Tadmor's  temples  of  decay, 
Nor  startled,  with  my  dreary  tread, 

The  waste  where  Memnon's  empire 
lay. 


Nor  have  I,  from  thy  hallowed  tide, 
O  Jordan!  heard  the  low  lament, 
Like  that  sad  wail  along  thy  side 
Which    Israel's    mournful   prophet 

sent ! 

Nor  thrilled  within  that  grotto  lone 
Where,  deep  in  night,  the  Bard  of 

Kings 

Felt  hands  of  fire  direct  his  own, 
And  sweep  for  God  the  conscious 
strings. 

I  have  not  climbed  to  Olivet, 

Nor  laid  me  where  my  Saviour  lay, 
And  left  his  trace  of  tears  as  yet 

By  angel  eyes  unwept  away  ; 
Nor  watched,  at  midnight's  solemn 
time, 

The  garden  where  his  prayer  and 

groan, 
Wrung  by  his  sorrow  and  our  crime, 

Rose  to  One  listening  ear  alone. 

I  have  not  kissed  the  rock-hewn  grot 
Where  in  his  Mother's  arms  he  lay 
Nor  knelt  upon  the  sacred  spot 
Where   last  his  footsteps  pressed 

the  clay ; 
Nor   looked   on   that  sad   mountain 

head, 
Nor  smote  my  sinful  breast,  where 

wide 

His  arms  to  fold  the  world  he  spread, 
And  bowed  his  head  to  bless  —  and 
died! 


PALESTINE. 

BLEST  land  of  Judaea !  thrice  hallowed 
of  song, 

Where  the  holiest  of  memories  pil- 
grim-like throng ; 

In  the  shade  of  thy  palms,  by  the 
shores  of  thy  sea, 

On  the  hills  of  thy  beauty,  my  heart 
is  with  thee. 

With  the  eye  of  a  spirit  I  look  on 
that  shore, 


io6 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Where  pilgrim  and  prophet  have  lin- 
gered before ; 

With  the  glide  of  a  spirit  I  traverse 
the  sod 

Made  bright  by  the  steps  of  the 
angels  of  God. 

Blue  sea  of  the  hills !  —  in  my  spirit  I 

hear 
Thy  waters,  Genesaret,  chime  on  my 

ear; 
Where  the  Lowly  and  Just  with  the 

people  sat  down, 
And  thy  spray  on  the  dust   of   his 

sandals  was  thrown. 

Beyond  are  Bethulia's  mountains  of 
green, 

And  the  desolate  hills  of  the  wild  Gad- 
arene ; 

And  I  pause  on  the  goat-crags  of 
Tabor  to  see 

The  gleam  of  thy  waters,  O  dark  Gal- 
ilee! 

Hark,  a  sound  in  the  valley !  where, 
swollen  and  strong, 

Thy  river,  O  Kishon,  is  sweeping 
along ; 

Where  the  Canaanite  strove  with  Je- 
hovah in  vain, 

And  thy  torrent  grew  dark  with  the 
blood  of  the  slain. 

There  down  from  his  mountains  stern 

Zebulon  came, 
And  NaphtalTs  stag,  with  his  eyeballs 

of  flame, 
And    the    chariots    of   Jabin   rolled 

harmlessly  on, 
For  the  arm  of  the  Lord  was  Abino- 

am's  son ! 

There  sleep   the  still  rocks  and   the 

caverns  which  rang 
To    the    song    which    the    beautiful 

prophetess  sang, 
When  the  princes  of  Issachar  stood 

by  her  side. 


And  the  shout  of  a  host  in  its  triumph 
replied. 

Lo,  Bethlehem's  hill-site  before  me  is 

seen, 
With  the  mountains  around,  and  the 

valleys  between ; 
There  rested  the  shepherds  of  Judah, 

and  there 
The  song  of  the  angels  rose  sweet  on 

the  air. 

And  Bethany's  palm-trees  in  beauty 
still  throw 

Their  shadows  at  noon  on  the  ruins 
below ; 

But  where  are  the  sisters  who  has- 
tened to  greet 

The  lowly  Redeemer,  and  sit  at  his 
feet? 

I  tread  where   the  TWELVE  in  their 

wayfaring  trod ; 
I   stand  where  they  stood  with   the 

CHOSEN  OF  GOD,  — 
Where  his  blessing  was  heard  and  his 

lessons  were  taught, 
Where  the  blind  were  restored  and 

the  healing  was  wrought. 

O,  here  with  his  flock  the  sad  Wan- 
derer came,  — 

These  hills  he  toiled  over  in  grief  are 
the  same,  — 

The  founts  where  he  drank  by  the 
.wayside  still  flow, 

And  the  same  airs  are  blowing  which 
breathed  on  his  brow! 

And  throned  on  her  hills  sits  Jerusa- 
lem yet, 

But  with  dust  on  her  forehead,  and 
chains  on  her  feet ; 

For  the  crown  of  her  pride  to  the 
mocker  hath  gone, 

And  the  holy  Shechinah  is  dark  where 
it  shone. 

But  wherefore  this  dream  of  the 
earthly  abode 


EZEKIEL. 


107 


Of  Humanity  clothed  in  the  brightness 
of  God? 

Were  my  spirit  but  turned  from  the 
outward  and  dim, 

It  could  gaze,  even  now,  on  the  pres- 
ence of  Him ! 

Not  in  clouds  and  in  terrors,  but 
gentle  as  when, 

In  love  and  in  meekness,  He  moved 
among  men ; 

And  the  voice  which  breathed  peace 
to  the  waves  of  the  sea 

In  the  hush  of  my  spirit  would  whis- 
per to  me! 

And  what  if  my  feet  may  not  tread 
where  He  stood, 

Nor  my  ears  hear  the  dashing  of  Gal- 
ilee's flood, 

Nor  my  eyes  see  the  cross  which  He 
bowed  him  to  bear, 

Nor  my  knees  press  Gethsemane's 
garden  of  prayer. 

Yet,  Loved  of  the  Father,  thy  Spirit 
is  near 

To  the  meek,  and  the  lowly,  and  pen- 
itent here ; 

And  the  voice  of  thy  love  is  the  same 
even  now 

As  at  Bethany's  tomb  or  on  Olivet's 
brow. 

O,  the  outward  hath  gone!  —  but  in 
glory  and  power, 

The  SPIRIT  surviveth  the  things  of  an 
hour ; 

Unchanged,  undecaying,  its  Pente- 
cost flame 

On  the  .heart's  secret  altar  is  burning 
the  same! 


EZEKIEL. 

CHAPTER    XXXIII.     30-33. 

THEY  hear  thee  not,  O  God!  nor  see  ; 
Beneath  thy  rod  they  mock  at  thee ; 
The  princes  of  our  ancient  line. 


Lie  drunken  with  Assyrian  wine  ; 
The  priests  around  thy  altar  speak 
The  false  words  which  their  hearers 

seek; 
And  hymns  which  Chaldea's  wanton 

maids 

Have  sung  in  Dura's  idol-shades 
Are  with  the  Levites'  chant  ascending, 
With  Zion's  holiest  anthems  blending! 

On  Israel's  bleeding  bosom  set, 
The  heathen  heel  is  crushing  yet; 
The  towers  upon  our  holy  hill 
Echo  Chaldean  footsteps  still. 
Our  wasted  shrines,  —  who  weeps  for 

them  ? 

Who  mourneth  for  Jerusalem? 
Who  turneth  from  his  gains  away? 
Whose  knee  with  mine  is  bowed  to 

pray  ? 

Who,  leaving  feast  and  purpling  cup, 
Takes  Zion's  lamentation  up? 

A  sad  and  thoughtful  youth,  I  went 
With  Israel's  early  banishment ; 
And  where  the'  sullen  Chebar  crept, 
The  ritual  of  my  fathers  kept. 
The  water  for  the  trench  I  drew, 
The  firstling  of  the  flock  I  slew, 
And,  standing  at  the  altar's  side, 
I  shared  the  Levites'  lingering  pride, 
That  still,  amidst  her  mocking  foes, 
The  smoke  of  Zion's  offering  rose. 

In  sudden  whirlwind,  cloud  and  flame, 
The  Spirit  of  the  Highest  came! 
Before  mine  eyes  a  vision  passed, 
A  glory  terrible  and  vast ; 
With  dreadful  eyes  of  living  things, 
And  sounding  sweep  of  angel  wings, 
With    circling    light     and    sapphire 

throne, 

And  flame-like  form  of  One  thereon, 
And  voice  of  that  dread  Likeness  sent 
Down  from  the  crystal  firmament ! 

The  burden  of  a  prophet's  power 
Fell  on  me  in  that  fearful  hour ; 
From  off  unutterable  woes 
The  curtain  of  the  future  rose  ; 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


I  saw  far  down  the  coming  time 
The  fiery  chastisement  of  crime  ; 
With  noise  of  mingling  hosts,  and  jar 
Of  falling  towers  and  shouts  of  war, 
I  saw  the  nations  rise  and  fall, 
Like  fire-gleams  on  my  tent's  white 
wall. 

In  dream  and  trance,  I  saw  the  slain 
Of  Egypt  heaped  like  harvest  grain  ; 
I  saw  the  walls  of  sea-born  Tyre 
Swept  over  by  the  spoiler's  fire  ; 
And  heard  the  low,  expiring  moan 
Of  Edom  on  his  rocky  throne  ; 
And,  woe  is  me !  the  wild  lament 
From  Zion's  desolation  sent ; 
And  felt  within  my  heart  each  blow 
Which  laid  her  holy  places  low. 

In  bonds  and  sorrow,  day  by  day, 
Before  the  pictured  tile  I  lay ; 
And  there,  as  in  a  mirror,  saw 
The  coming  of  Assyria's  war,  — 
Her  swarthy  lines  of  spearmen  pass 
Like    locusts     through    Bethhoron's 

grass ; 

I  saw  them  draw  their  stormy  hem 
Of  battle  round  Jerusalem  ; 
And,   listening,   heard    the    Hebrew 

wail 
Blend  with  the  victor-trump  of  Baal ! 

Who  trembled  at  my  warning  word? 
Who  owned  the  prophet  of  the  Lord  ? 
How  mocked  the  rude,  —  how  scoffed 

the  vile,  — 

How  stung  the  Levites'  scornful  smile, 
As  o'er  my  spirit,  dark  and  slow, 
The  shadow  crept  of  Israel's  woe, 
As  if  the  angel's  mournful  roll 
Had  left  its  record  on  my  soul, 
And  traced  in  lines  of  darkness  there 
The  picture  of  its  great  despair! 

Yet  ever  at  the  hour  I  feel 
My  lips  in  prophecy  unseal. 
Prince,  priest,  and  Levite  gather  near, 
And  Salenrs  daughters  haste  to  hear, 
On  Chebar's  waste  and  alien  shore, 
The  harp  of  Judah  swept  once  more. 


They  listen,  as  in  Babel's  throng 
The  Chaldeans  to  the  dancer's  song, 
Or  wild  sabbeka's  nightly  play, 
As  careless  and  as  vain  as  they. 


And  thus,  O  Prophet-bard  of  old, 
Hast  thou  thy  tale  of  sorrow  told ! 
The  same  which  earth's  unwelcome 

seers 

Have  felt  in  all  succeeding  years. 
Sport  of  the  changeful  multitude, 
Nor  calmly  heard  nor  understood, 
Their  song  has  seemed  a  trick  of  art, 
Their  warnings  but  the  actor's  part. 
With  bonds,  and  scorn,  and  evil  will, 
The  world  requites  its  prophets  still. 

So  was  it  when  the  Holy  One 
The  garments  of  the  flesh  put  on ! 
Men  followed  where  the  Highest  led 
For  common  gifts  of  daily  bread, 
And  gross  of  ear,  of  vision  dim, 
Owned  not  the  godlike  power  of  him. 
Vain  as  a  dreamer's  words  to  them 
His  wail  above  Jerusalem, 
And  meaningless  the  watch  he  kept 
Through   which    his   weak   disciples 
slept. 

Yet  shrink  not  thou,  whoe'er  thou  art, 
For  God's  great  purpose  set  apart, 
Before  whose  far-discerning  eyes, 
The  Future  as  the  Present  lies! 
Beyond  a  narrow-bounded  age 
Stretches  thy  prophet-heritage, 
Through  Heaven's  dim  spaces  angel- 
trod, 
Through  arches  round  the  throne  of 

God! 
Thy  audience,  worlds !  —  all  Time  to 

be 
The  witness  of  the  Truth  in  thee ! 


THE    WIFE   OF   MANOAH     TO 
HER   HUSBAND. 

AGAINST  the  sunset's  glowing  wall 
The  city  towers  rise  black  and  tall, 
Where  Zorah  on  its  rocky  height, 


THE   WIFE  OF   MANOAH  TO   HER   HUSBAND. 


109 


Stands   like  an  armed    man   in   the 
light. 

Down  EshtaoPs  vales  of  ripened  grain 
Falls  like  a  cloud  the  night  amain, 
And  up  the  hillsides  climbing  slow 
The  barley  reapers  homeward  go. 

Look,   dearest!  how   our  fair  child's 

head 

The  sunset  light  hath  hallowed, 
Where  at  this  olive's  foot  he  lies, 
Uplooking  to  the  tranquil  skies. 

O,  while  beneath  the  fervent  heat 
Thy  sickle  swept  the  bearded  wheat, 
I  Ve  watched,  with  mingled  joy  and 

dread, 
Our  child  upon  his  grassy  bed. 

Joy,  which  the  mother  feels  alone 
Whose  morning  hope  like  mine  had 

flown, 

When  to  her  bosom,  over  blessed, 
A  dearer  life  than  hers  is  pressed. 

Dread,  for  the  future  dark  and  still. 
Which   shapes    our   dear   one   to  its 

will ; 

Forever  in  his  large  calm  eyes, 
I  read  a  tale  of  sacrifice.  — 

The  same  foreboding  awe  I  felt 
When  at  the  altar's  side  we  knelt, 
And  he,  who  as  a  pilgrim  came, 
Rose,  winged  and  glorious,  through 
the  flame. 

I    slept   not,   though    the   wild   bees 

made 

A  dreamlike  murmuring  in  the  shade, 
And  on  me  the  warm-fingered  hours 
Pressed   with    the   drowsy   smell    of 

flowers. 

Before  me,  in  a  vision,  rose 

The  hosts  of  Israel's  scornful  foes,  — 

Rank   over  rank,    helm,    shield,    and 

spear, 
Glittered  in  noon's  hot  atmosphere. 


I  heard  their  boast,  and  bitter  word, 
Their  mockery  of  the  Hebrew's  Lord, 
I  saw  their  hands  his  ark  assail, 
Their  feet  profane  his  holy  veil. 

No  angel  down  the  blue  space  spoke, 
No  thunder  from  the  still  sky  broke  ; 
But  in  their  midst,  in  power  and  awe, 
Like  God's  waked  wrath,  OUR  CHILD 
I  saw! 

A    child    no   more!  —  harsh-browed 

and  strong, 

He  towered  a  giant  in  the  throng, 
And  down  his  shoulders,  broad  and 

bare, 
Swept  the  black  terror  of  his  hair. 

He  raised  his  arm  ;  he  smote  amain  ; 
As  round  the  reaper  falls  the  grain, 
So  the  dark  host  around  him  fell, 
So  sank  the  foes  of  Israel ! 

Again  I  looked.     In  sunlight  shone 
The  towers  and  domes  of  Askelon. 
Priest,  warrior,  slave,  a  mighty  crowd, 
Within  her  idol  temple  bowed. 

Yet  one  knelt  not ;  stark,  gaunt,  and 

blind, 

His  arms  the  massive  pillars  twined,  — 
An  eyeless  captive,  strong  with  hate, 
He  stood  there  like  an  evil  Fate. 

The  red  shrines  smoked,  —  the  trum- 
pets pealed  : 

He  stooped,  —  the  giant  columns 
reeled,  — 

Reeled  tower  and  fane,  sank  arch  and 
wall, 

And  the  thick  dust-cloud  closed  o'er 
all! 

Above     the    shriek,   the    crash,   the 

groan 

Of  the  fallen  pride  of  Askelon, 
I  heard,  sheer  down  the  echoing  sky, 
A  voice  as  of  an  angel  cry,  — 


no 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


The  voice  of  him,  who  at  our  side 
Sat  through  the  golden  eventide,  — 
Of  him  who,  on  thy  altar's  blaze, 
Rose  fire- winged,    with   his   song  of 
praise. 

"  Rejoice  o'er  Israel's  broken  chain, 
Gray  mother  of  the  mighty  slain! 
Rejoice ! "  it  cried,  "  he  vanquisheth ! 
The  strong  in  life  is  strong  in  death ! 

"To    him    shall    Zorah's    daughters 

raise 
Through  coining  years  their  hymns  of 

praise, 

And  gray  old  men  at  evening  tell 
Of  all  he  wrought  for  Israel. 

"  And   they  who  sing  and  they  who 

hear 

Alike  shall  hold  thy  memory  dear, 
And  pour  their  blessings  on  thy  head, 

0  mother  of  the  mighty  dead !  " 

It   ceased ;  and   though   a   sound    I 

heard 

As  if  great  wings  the  still  air  stirred, 
I. only  saw  the  barley  sheaves 
And  hills  half  hid  by  olive  leaves. 

1  bowed  my  face,  in  awe  and  fear, 
On   the   dear  child  who    slumbered 

near. 

"  With  me,  as  with  my  only  son, 
O    God,"    I    said, "  THY    WILL     BE 

DONE!" 


THE    CITIES    OF   THE   PLAIN. 

"  GET  ye  up  from  the  wrath  of  God's 
terrible  day! 

Ungirded,  unsandalled,  arise  and 
away! 

T  is  the  vintage  of  blood,  't  is  the  ful- 
ness of  time, 

And  vengeance  shall  gather  the  har- 
vest of  crime  ! " 


The  warning  was  spoken  ;  the  right- 
eous had  gone, 

And  the  proud  ones  of  Sodom  were 
feasting  alone ; 

All  gay  was  the  banquet;  the  revel 
was  long, 

With  the  pouring  of  wine  and  the 
breathing  of  song. 

'Twas  an  evening  of  beauty;  the  air 

was  perfume, 
The  earth  was  all  greenness,  the  trees 

were  all  bloom ; 

And  softly  the  delicate  viol  was  heard, 
Like  the  murmur  of  love  or  the  notes 

of  a  bird. 

And  beautiful  maidens  moved  down 
in  the  dance, 

With  the  magic  of  motion  and  sun- 
shine of  glance ; 

And  white  arms  wreathed  lightly,  and 
tresses  fell  free 

As  the  plumage  of  birds  in  some  trop- 
ical tree. 

Where  the  shrines  of  foul  idols  were 

lighted  on  high, 
And  wantonness  tempted  the  lust  of 

the  eye ; 
Midst  rites  of  obsceneness,  strange, 

loathsome,  abhorred, 
The  blasphemer  scoffed  at  the  name 

of  the  Lord. 

Hark !  the  growl  of  the  thunder,  —  the 

quaking  of  earth ! 
Woe,  woe  to  the  worship,  and  woe  to 

the  mirth! 
The  black  sky  has  opened, —  there's 

flame  in  the  air,  — 
The  red  arm  of  vengeance   is   lifted 

and  bare! 

Then   the   shriek   of  the   dying  rose 

wild  where  the  song 
And  the  low  tone  of  love  had  been 

whispered  along ; 
For  the  fierce  flames  went  lightly  o'ei 

palace  and  bower, 


THE   STAR   OF   BETHLEHEM. 


in 


Like  the  red  tongues  of  demons,  to 
blast  and  devour! 

Down,  —  down  on  the  fallen  the  red 
ruin  rained, 

And  the  reveller  sank  with  his  wine- 
cup  undrained ; 

The  foot  of  the  dancer,  the  musics 
loved  thrill, 

And  the  shout  of  the  laughter  grew 
suddenly  still. 

The  last  throb  of  anguish  was  fear- 
fully given  ; 

The  last  eye  glared  forth  in  its  mad- 
ness on  Heaven! 

The  last  groan  of  horror  rose  wildly 
and  vain, 

And  death  brooded  over  the  pride  of 
the  Plain! 


THE  CRUCIFIXION. 

SUNLIGHT  upon  Judaea's  hills! 

And  on  the  waves  of  Galilee,  — 
On  Jordan's  stream,  and  on  the  rills 

That  feed  the  dead  and  sleeping  sea ! 
Most  freshly   from   the   green  wood 

springs 

The  light  breeze  on  its  scented  wings  ; 
And  gayly  quiver  in  the  sun 
The  cedar  tops  of  Lebanon ! 

A  few  more  hours,  —  a  change  hath 
come! 

The  sky  is  dark  without  a  cloud! 
The  shouts  of  wrath  and  joy  are  dumb, 

And  proud   knees   unto   earth  are 

bowed. 

A  change  is  on  the  hill  of  Death, 
The  helmed  watchers  pant  for  breath. 
And  turn  with  wild  and  maniac  eyes 
From  the  dark  scene  of  sacrifice! 

That      Sacrifice!  —  the      death      of 

Him.  - 

The  High  and  ever  Holy  One! 
Well  may  the  conscious  Heaven  grow 

dim, 


And  blacken  the  beholding  Sun. 
The  wonted  light  hath  fled  away, 
Night  settles  on  the  middle  day, 
And   earthquake    from    his  caverned 

bed 
Is  waking  with  a  thrill  of  dread ! 

The  dead  are  waking  underneath! 

Their  prison  door  is  rent  away! 
And,  ghastly  with  the  seal  of  death, 

They  wander  in  the  eye  of  day! 
The  temple  of  the  Cherubim, 
The  House  of  God  is  cold  and  dim ; 
A  curse  is  on  its  trembling  walls, 
Its  mighty  veil  asunder  falls! 

Well  may  the  cavern-depths  of  Earth 

Be  shaken,  and  her  mountains  nod  ; 

Well   may   the   sheeted    dead  come 

forth 

To  gaze  upon  a  suffering  God! 
Well   may   the    temple-shrine    grow 

dim, 

And  shadows  veil  the  Cherubim, 
When  He,  the  chosen  one  of  Heaven, 
A  sacrifice  for  guilt  is  given! 

And  shall  the  sinful  heart,  alone, 

Behold  unmoved  the  atoning  hour, 
When  Nature  trembles  on  her  throne, 
And  Death  resigns  his  iron  power? 
O,  shall  the  heart,  —  whose  sinfulness 
Gave  keenness  to  his  sore  distress, 
And  added  to  his  tears  of  blood, — 
Refuse  its  trembling  gratitude! 


THE    STAR    OF   BETHLEHEM. 

WHERE    Time   the   measure   of    his 

hours 
By   changeful    bud    and    blossom 

keeps, 
And,  like  a  young  bride  crowned  with 

flowers, 
Fair  Shiraz  in  her  garden  sleeps  ; 

Where,  to  her  poet's  turban  stone, 
The  Spring  her  gift  of  flowers  im- 
parts, 


112 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Less  sweet  than  those   his  thoughts 

have  sown 
In  the  warm  soil  of  Persian  hearts  : 

There  sat  the  stranger,  where  the 
shade 

Of  scattered  date-trees  thinly  lay, 
While  in  the  hot  clear  heaven  delayed 

The  long  and  still  and  weary  day. 

Strange   trees   and  fruits  above  him 

hung, 

Strange  odors  filled  the  sultry  air, 
Strange  birds  upon  the  branches 

swung, 

Strange    insect   voices    murmured 
there. 

And  strange  bright  blossoms   shone 

around, 
Turned  sunward  from  the  shadowy 

bowers, 

As  if  the  Gheber's  soul  had  found 
A  fitting  home  in  Iran's  flowers. 

Whatever  he  saw,  whatever  he  heard, 

Awakened  feelings  new  and  sad,  — 

No     Christian    garb,    nor    Christian 

word, 

Nor    church     with      Sabbath-bell 
chimes  glad, 

But     Moslem    graves,   with     turban 

stones, 
And  mosque-spires  gleaming  white, 

in  view, 

And  graybeard  Mollahs  in  low  tones 
Chanting     their      Koran      service 
through. 

The  flowers  which  smiled  on  either 

hand, 
Like  tempting  fiends,  were  such  as 

they 

Which  once,  o'er  all  that  Eastern  land, 
As  gifts  on  demon  altars  lay. 

As  if  the  burning  eye  of  Baal 

The    servant     of    his    Conqueror 
knew, 


From   skies  which   knew  no  cloudy 

veil, 

The  Sun's  hot  glances  smote  him 
through . 

"Ah  me!"  the  lonely  stranger  said, 
"  The  hope  which  led  my  footsteps 

on, 
And  light  from  heaven  around  them 

shed, 
O'er  weary  wave  and  waste,  is  gone! 

"Where  are   the    harvest   fields    all 

white, 

For  Truth  to  thrust  her  sickle  in? 
Where  flock  the  souls,  like  doves  in 

flight, 
From  the  dark  hiding-place  of  sin  ? 

"  A  silent  horror  broods  o'er  all,  — 
The  burden  of  a  hateful  spell,  — 

The  very  flowers  around  recall 
The  hoary  magi's  rites  of  hell! 

"  And  what  am  I,  o'er  such  a  land 
The  banner  of  the  Cross  to  bear? 

Dear  Lord,  uphold  me  with  thy  hand, 
Thy  strength  with  human  weakness 
share !  " 

He  ceased  ;  for  at  his  very  feet 

In  mild  rebuke  a  floweret  smiled,  — 
How   thrilled   his   sinking   heart     to 

greet 

The    Star-flower   of    the  Virgin's 
child! 

Sown   by  some  wandering  Frank,  it 
drew 

Its  life  from  alien  air  and  earth, 
And  told  to  Paynim  sun  and  dew 

The  story  of  the  Saviour's  birth. 

From     scorching    beams,    in   kindly 

mood, 
The     Persian     plants    its    beauty 

screened, 
And  on  its  pagan  sisterhood, 

In     love,    the     Christian   floweret 
leaned. 


HYMNS. 


With  tears  of  joy  the  wanderer  felt 
The  darkness  of  his  long  despair 

Before  that  hallowed  symbol  melt, 
Which  God's  dear  love  had  nurtured 
there. 

From  Nature's  face,  that  simple  flower 
The  lines  of  sin  and  sadness  swept ; 

And  Magian  pile  and  Paynim  bower 
In  peace  like  that  of  Eden  slept. 

Each  Moslem  tomb,  and  cypress  old, 
Looked  holy  through  the  sunset 

air ; 

And,  angel-like,  the  Muezzin  told 
From  tower  and  mosque  the  hour 
of  prayer. 

With  cheerful  steps,  the  morrow's 
dawn 

From  Shiraz  saw  the  stranger  part ; 
The  Star-flower  of  the  Virgin-Born 

Still  blooming  in  his  hopeful  heart! 


HYMNS. 

FROM    THE    FRENCH   OF    LAMARTINE. 

ONE  hymn  more,  O  my  lyre! 
Praise  to  the  God  above, 
Of  joy  and  life  and  love, 

Sweeping  its  strings  of  fire ! 

O,  who  the  speed  of  bird  and  wind 
And  sunbeam's  glance  will  lend  to 

me, 

That,  soaring  upward,  I  may  find 
My    resting-place    and    home     in 

Thee?  — 
Thou,  whom  my   soul,   midst   doubt 

and  gloom, 

Adoreth  with  a  fervent  flame, — 
Mysterious  spirit!  unto  whom 
Pertain  nor  sign  nor  name! 

Swiftly  my  lyre's  soft  murmurs  go, 
Up    from    the    cold    and    joyless 
earth, 


Back   to   the   God  who    bade   them 

flow, 
Whose   moving   spirit    sent    them 

forth. 
But  as  for  me,  O  God !  for  me, 

The  lowly  creature  of  thy  will, 

Lingering  and  sad,  I  sigh  to  thee, 

An  earth-bound  pilgrim  still ! 

Was  not  my  spirit  born  to  shine 

Where  yonder  stars   and  suns  are 

glowing? 
To  breathe  with  them  the  light  divine 

From  God's  own  holy  altar  flowing? 
To  be,  indeed,  whate'er  the  soul 

In   dreams    hath    thirsted    for    so 

long,— 
A  portion  of  Heaven's  glorious  whole 

Of  loveliness  and  song? 

O,  watchers  of  the  stars  at  night, 
Who  breathe  their  fire,  as  we  the 

air, — 
Suns,   thunders,   stars,   and   rays   of 

light, 

O,  say,  is  He,  the  Eternal,  there? 
Bend  there  around  his  awful  throne 
The  seraph's   glance,   the    angel's 

knee? 

Or  are  thy  inmost  depths  his  own, 
O  wild  and  mighty  sea? 

Thoughts   of  my  soul,  how  swift  ye 

go! 

Swift  as  the  eagle's  glance  of  fire, 
Or  arrows  from  the  archer's  bow, 
To  the  far  aim  of  your  desire ! 
Thought  after  thought,  ye  thronging 

rise, 
Like  spring-doves  from  the  startled 

wood, 

Bearing  like  them  your  sacrifice 
Of  music  unto  God! 

And  shall  these  thoughts  of  joy  and 
love 

Come  back  again  no  more  to  me  ?  — 
Returning  like  the  Patriarch's  dove 

Wing-weary  from  the  eternal  sea, 
To  bear  within  my  longing  arms 


114 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


The     promise-bough    of    kindlier 

skies, 
Plucked  from  the  green,  immortal 

palms 
Which  shadow  Paradise? 

All-moving  spirit!  —  freely  forth 

At  thy  command  the  strong  wind 

goes ; 
Its  errand  to  the  passive  earth, 

Nor    art    can    stay,    nor    strength 

oppose, 
Until  it  folds  its  weary  wing 

Once  more  within  the  hand  divine  ; 
So,  weary  from  its  wandering, 

My  spirit  turns  to  thine ! 

Child  of  the  sea,  the  mountain  stream, 

From  its  dark  caverns,  hurries  on, 
Ceaseless,    by  night  and    morning's 

beam, 
By  evening's  star  and  noontide's 

sun, 
Until  at  last  it  sinks  to  rest, 

O'erwearied,  in  the  waiting  sea, 
And     moans     upon      its      mother's 

breast,  — 
So  turns  my  soul  to  Thee ! 

O  Thou  who  bid'st  the  torrent  flow, 

Who     lendest     wings     unto     the 

wind,  — 
Mover  of  all  things !  where  art  thou? 

O,  whither  shall  I  go  to  find 
The  secret  of  thy  resting-place? 

Is  there  no  holy  wing  for  me, 
That,  soaring,  I  may  search  the  space 

Of  highest  heaven  for  Thee? 


O,  would  I  were  as  free  to  rise 

As   leaves  on  autumn's   whirlwind 

borne,  — 
The  arrowy  light  of  sunset  skies, 

Or  sound,  or  ray,  or  star  of  morn, 
Which  melts  in  heaven  at  twilight's 

close, 

Or  aught  which   soars   unchecked 
and  free 


Through  earth  and   Heaven;  that  I 

might  lose 
Myself  in  finding  Thee! 


WHEN  the  BREATH  DIVINE  is  flowing, 
Zephyr-like  o'er  all  things  going, 
And.  as  the  touch  of  viewless  fingers, 
Softly  on  my  soul  it  lingers, 
Open  to  a  breath  the  lightest, 
Conscious  of  a  touch  the  slightest,  — 
As  some  calm,  still  lake,  whereon 
Sinks  the  snowy-bosomed  swan, 
And  the  glistening  water-rings 
Circle  round  her  moving  wings  : 
When  my  upward  gaze  is  turning 
Where  the  stars  of  heaven  are  burning 
Through  the  deep  and  dark  abyss, — 
Flowers  of  midnight's  wilderness, 
Blowing  with  the  evening's  breath 
Sweetly  in  their  Maker's  path  : 

When  the  breaking  day  is  flushing 
All  the  east,  and  light  is  gushing 
Upward  through  the  horizon's  haze, 
Sheaf-like,  with  its  thousand  rays, 
Spreading,  until  all  above 
Overflows  with  joy  and  love, 
And  below,  on  earth's  green  bosom, 
All  is  changed  to  light  and  blossom  : 

When  my  waking  fancies  over 
Forms  of  brightness  flit  and  hover, 
Holy  as  the  seraphs  are, 
Who  by  Zion's  fountains  wear 
On  their  foreheads,  white  and  broad, 
"HOLINESS  UNTO  THE  LORD!" 
When,  inspired  with  rapture  high, 
It  would  seem  a  single  sigh 
Could  a  world  of  love  create,  — 
That  my  life  could  know  no  date, 
And  my  eager  thoughts  could  fill 
Heaven  and  Earth,  o'erflowing  still !  — 

Then,  O  Father!  thou  alone, 
From  the  shadow  of  thy  throne, 
To  the  sighing  of  my  breast 
And  its  rapture  answerest. 
All     my    thoughts,    which,     upward 
winging, 


THE  FEMALE  MARTYR. 


Bathe  where  thy  own  light  is  spring- 
ing? — 

All  my  yearnings  to  be  free 
Are  as  echoes  answering  thee ! 

Seldom  upon  lips  of  mine, 
Father!  rests  that  name  of  thine, — 
Deep  within  my  inmost  breast, 
In  the  secret  place  of  mind, 
Like  an  awful  presence  shrined, 
Doth  the  dread  idea  rest! 
Hushed  and  holy  dwells  it  there,— 
Prompter  of  the  silent  prayer, 
Lifting  up  my  spirit's  eye 
And  its  faint,  but  earnest  cry, 
From  its  dark  and  cold  abode, 
Unto  thee,  my  Guide  and  God! 


THE   FEMALE   MARTYR. 

[Mary  G ,  aged   18,   a   "  SISTER  OF 

CHARITY,"  died  in  one  of  our  Atlantic 
cities,  during  the  prevalence  of  the  Indian 
cholera,  while  in  voluntary  attendance  upon 
the  sick.] 

"  BRING  out  your  dead!"     The  mid- 
night street 

Heard  and  gave  back   the  hoarse, 
low  call ; 

Harsh  fell  the  tread  of  hasty  feet,  — 

Glanced  through  the  dark  the  coarse 

white  sheet,  — 
Her  coffin  and  her  pall. 

"  What  —  only  one !  "  the  brutal  hack- 
man  said, 

As,  with   an  oath,  he  spurned  away 
the  dead. 


How  sunk  the  inmost  hearts  of  all, 
As  rolled  that  dead-cart  slowly  by, 

With  creaking  wheel  and  harsh  hoof- 
fall! 

The  dying  turned  him  to  the  wall, 
To  hear  it  and  to  die!  — 

Onward  it  rolled  ;  while  oft  its  driver 
stayed, 

And  hoarsely  clamored, "  Ho !  —  bring 
out  your  dead.11 


It  paused  beside  the  burial-place ; 
"  Toss  in  your  load !  "  —  and  it  was 

done.  — 

With  quick  hand  and  averted  face, 
Hastily  to  the  grave's  embrace 

They  cast  them,  one  by  one, — 
Stranger  and  friend,  —  the  evil  and  the 

just, 

Together  trodden  in  the  churchyard 
dust! 

And  thou,  young  martyr!  —  thou  wast 

there,  — 
No  white-robed  sisters  round  thee 

trod,  — 

Nor  holy  hymn,  nor  funeral  prayer 
Rose  through  the  damp  and  noisome 

air, 

Giving  thee  to  thy  God  ; 
Nor  flower,  nor  cross,  nor  hallowed 

taper  gave 
Grace  to  the  dead,  and  beauty  to  the 

grave! 

Yet,  gentle  sufferer !  there  shall  be, 
In  every  heart  of  kindly  feeling, 
A  rite  as  holy  paid  to  thee 
As  if  beneath  the  convent-tree 

Thy  sisterhood  were  kneeling, 
At  vesper  hours,  like  sorrowing  angels, 

keeping 

Their  tearful  watch  around  thy  place 
of  sleeping. 

For  thou  wast  one  in  whom  the  light 
Of  Heaven's  own  love  was  kindled 
well. 

Enduring  with  a  martyr's  might, 

Through  weary  day  and  wakeful  night 
Far  more  than  words  may  tell : 

Gentle,  and  meek,  and  lowly,  and  un- 
known, — 

Thy  mercies  measured  by  thy  God 
alone! 

Where  manly  hearts  were  failing,— 

where 

The  throngful  street  grew  foul  with 
death, 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


O    high-souled   martyr! — thou   wast 
there, 

Inhaling,  from  the  loathsome  air, 
Poison  with  every  breath. 

Yet  shrinking  not  from  offices  of  dread 

For  the  wrung  dying,  and  the  uncon- 
scious dead. 

And,  where  the  sickly  taper  shed 
Its  light  through  vapors,  damp,  con- 
fined, 

Hushed  as  a  seraph's  fell  thy  tread,  — 
A  new  Electra  by  the  bed 

Of  suffering  human-kind! 
Pointing  the  spirit,  in  its  dark  dismay, 
To  that  pure  hope  which  fadeth  not 
away. 

Innocent  teacher  of  the  high 

And  holy  mysteries  of  Heaven! 
How  turned  to  thee  each  glazing  eye, 
In  mute  and  awful  sympathy, 

As  thy  low  prayers  were  given  ; 
And  the  o'er-hovering  Spoiler  wore, 

the  while, 

An    angel's   features,  —  a   deliverer's 
smile ! 

A  blessed  task!  — and  worthy  one 
Who,  turning  from   the  world,  as 

thou, 

Before  life's  pathway  had  begun 
To  leave  its  spring-time  flower  and  sun, 

Had  sealed  her  early  vow  ; 
Giving  to  God  her  beauty  and   her 
youth, 


Her  pure  affections  and  her  guileless 
truth. 

Earth  may  not  claim  thee.     Nothing 

here 

Could  be  for  thee  a  meet  reward ; 
Thine  is  a  treasure  far  more  dear, — 
Eye  hath  not  seen  it,  nor  the  ear 

Of  living  mortal  heard,  — 
The  joys   prepared,  —  the   promised 

bliss  above,  — 
The  holy  presence  of  Eternal  Love! 


Sleep  on  in  peace.      The  earth  has 

not 
A  nobler  name  than  thine  shall  be. 

The     deeds     by     martial     manhood 
wrought, 

The  lofty  energies  of  thought, 
The  fire  of  poesy,  — 

These  have  but  frail  and  fading  hon- 
ors;  —  thine 

Shall  Time  unto  Eternity  consign. 

Yea,  and  when  thrones  shall  crumble 

down, 
And    human    pride    and   grandeur 

fall,- 

The  herald's  line  of  long  renown, — 
The  mitre  and  the  kingly  crown,  — 

Perishing  glories  all! 
The  pure  devotion  of  thy  generous 

heart 
Shall  live  in  Heaven,  of  which  it  was 

a  part. 


THE    FROST    SPIRIT. 

HE  comes,  —  he  comes,  —  the  Frost  Spirit  comes!  You  may  trace  his  foot- 
steps now 

On  the  naked  woods  and  the  blasted  fields  and  the  brown  hill's  withered  brow. 

He  has  smitten  the  leaves  of  the  gray  old  trees  where  their  pleasant  green 
came  forth, 

And  the  winds,  which  follow  wherever  he  goes,  have  shaken  them  down  to  earth. 

He     comes,  —  he    comes,  —  the    Frost     Spirit    comes!  —  from    the    frozen 

Labrador,  — 
From  the  icy  bridge  of  the  Northern  seas,  which  the  white  bear  wanders  o'er,  — 


THE  VAUDOIS   TEACHER.  117 

Where  the  fisherman's  sail  is  stiff  with  ice,  and  the  luckless  forms  below 
In  the  sunless  cold  of  the  lingering  night  into  marble  statues  grow! 

He  comes,  —  he  comes,  —  the  Frost  Spirit  comes!  —  on  the  rushing  Northern 

blast, 

And  the  dark  Norwegian  pines  have  bowed  as  his  fearful  breath  went  past. 
With  an  unscorched  wing  he  has  hurried  on,  where  the  fires  of  Hecla  glow 
On  the  darkly  beautiful  sky  above  and  the  ancient  ice  below. 

He  comes,  —  he  comes,  —  the  Frost  Spirit  comes !  —  and  the  quiet  lake  shall  feel 
The  torpid  touch  of  his  glazing  breath,  and  ring  to  the  skater's  heel ; 


And  the  streams  which  danced  on  the  broken  rocks,  or  sang  to  the  leaning  grass, 

:hain,  and  in  mournful  silence  pass. 


Shall  bow  again  to  their  winter  chain,  and  in  mournful  silence  pass. 


He  comes,  —  he  comes,  —  the  Frost  Spirit  comes !  —  let  us  meet  him  as  we  may, 

And  turn  with  the  light  of  the  parlor-fire  his  evil  power  away ; 

And  gather  closer  the  circle  round,  when  that  fire-light  dances  high, 

And  laugh  at  the  shriek  of  the  baffled  Fiend  as  his  sounding  wing  goes  by! 


THE   VAUDOIS   TEACHER. 

"O  LADY  fair,  these  silks  of  mine  are  beautiful  and  rare,— 

The  richest  web  of  the  Indian  loom,  which  beauty's  queen  might  wear ; 

And  my  pearls  are  pure  as  thy  own  fair  neck,  with  whose  radiant  light  they  vie  ; 

I  have  brought  them  with  me  a  weary  way,  —  will  my  gentle  lady  buy? " 

And  the  lady  smiled  on  the  worn  old  man  through  the  dark  and  clustering  curls 
\Vhich  veiled  her  brow  as  she  bent  to  view  his  silks  and  glittering  pearls ; 
And  she  placed  their  price  in  the  old  man's  hand,  and  lightly  turned  away, 
But  she  paused  at  the  wanderer's  earnest  call,  —  "My  gentle  lady,  stay!" 

"  O  lady  fair,  I  have  yet  a  gem  which  a  purer  lustre  flings, 
Than  the  diamond  flash  of  the  jewelled  crown  on  the  lofty  brow  of  kings, — 
A  wonderful  pearl  of  exceeding  price,  whose  virtue  shall  not  decay, 
Whose  light  shall  be  as  a  spell  to  thee  and  a  blessing  on  thy  way! " 

The  lady  glanced  at  the  mirroring  steel  where  her  form  of  grace  was  seen, 
Where  her  eye  shone  clear,  and  her  dark  locks  waved  tlfeir  clasping  pearls 

between  ; 

"  Bring  forth  thy  pearl  of  exceeding  worth,  thou  traveller  gray  and  old,— 
And  name  the  price  of  thy  precious  gem,  and  my  page  shall  count  thy  gold." 

The  cloud  went  off  from  the  pilgrim's  brow,  as  a  small  and  meagre  book, 
Unchased  with  gold  or  gem  of  cost,  from  his  folding  robe  he  took! 
'•  Here,  lady  fair,  is  the  pearl  of  price,  may  it  prove  as  such  to  thee! 
Nay  —  keep  thy  gold  —  I  ask  it  not,  for  the  word  of  God  is  free!" 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


The  hoary  traveller  went  his  way,  but  the  gift  he  left  behind 
Hath  had  its  pure  and  perfect  work  on  that  high-born  maiden's  mind, 
And  she  hath  turned  from  the  pride  of  sin  to  the  lowliness  of  truth, 
And  given  her  human  heart  to  God  in  its  beautiful  hour  of  youth! 

And  she  hath  left  the  gray  old  halls,  where  an  evil  faith  had  power, 
The  courtly  knights  of  her  father's  train,  and  the  maidens  of  her  bower-, 
And  she  hath  gone  to  the  Vaudois  vales  by  lordly  feet  untrod, 
Where  the  poor  and  needy  of  earth  are  rich  in  the  perfect  love  of  God ! 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    CHRIS- 
TIAN. 

NOT  always  as  the  whirlwind's  rush 

On  Horeb's  mount  of  fear, 
Not  always  as  the  burning  bush 

To  Miclian's  shepherd  seer, 
Nor  as  the  awful  voice  which  came 

To  Israel's  prophet  bards, 
Nor  as  the  tongues  of  cloven  flame, 

Nor  gift  of  fearful  words,  — 

Not  always  thus,  with  outward  sign 

Of  fire  or  voice  from  Heaven, 
The  message  of  a  truth  divine, 

The  call  of  God  is  given! 
Awaking  in  the  human  heart 

Love  for  the  true  and  right,  — 
Zeal  for  the  Christian's  "  better  part," 

Strength  for  the  Christian's  fight. 

Nor  unto  manhood's  heart  alone 

The  holy  influence  steals  : 
Warm  with  a  rapture  not  its  own, 

The  heart  of  woman  feels ! 
As  she  who  by  Samaria's  wall 

The  Saviour's  errand  sought,  — 
As  those  who  with  the  fervent  Paul 

And  meek  Aquila  wrought : 

Or  those  meek  ones  whose  martyrdom 

Rome's  gathered  grandeur  saw  : 
Or  those  who  in  their  Alpine  home 

Braved  the  Crusader's  war, 
When  the  green  Vaudois,  trembling, 
heard, 

Through  all  its  vales  of  death, 
The  martyr's  song  of  triumph  poured 

From  woman's  failing  breath. 


And  gently,  by  a  thousand  things 

Which  o'er  our  spirits  pass, 
Like    breezes    o'er    the    harp's    fine 
strings, 

Or  vapors  o'er  a  glass, 
Leaving  their  token  strange  and  new 

Of  music  or  of  shade. 
The  summons  to  the  right  and  true 

And  merciful  is  made. 

O,  then,  if  gleams  of  truth  and  light 

Flash  o'er  thy  waiting  mind, 
Unfolding  to  thy  mental  sight 

The  wants  of  human-kind  ; 
If,  brooding  over  human  grief, 

The  earnest  wish  is  known 
To  soothe  and  gladden  with  relief 

An  anguish  not  thine  own ; 

Though  heralded  with  naught  of  fear, 

Or  outward  sign  or  show  ; 
Though  only  to  the  inward  ear 

It  whispers  soft  and  low ; 
Though  dropping,  as  the  manna  fell, 

Unseen,  yet  from  above, 
Noiseless  as  dew-fall,  heed  it  well,  — 

Thy  Father's  call  of  love ! 


MY    SOUL   AND    I. 

STAND  still,  my  soul,  in  the  silent  dark 

I  would  question  thee, 
Alone  in  the  shadow  drear  and  stark 

With  God  and  me  ! 

What,  my  soul,  was  thy  errand  here? 

Was  it  mirth  or  ease, 
Or  heaping  up  dust  from  year  to  year? 

"  Nay,  none  of  these ! " 


MY  SOUL  AND  I. 


119 


Speak,  soul,  aright  in  His  holy  sight 

Whose  eye  looks  still 
And  steadily  on  thee  through    the 

night : 
"To  do  his  will!" 

What    hast    thou    done,    O  soul   of 

mine, 

That  thou  tremblest  so  ?  — 
Hast  thou  wrought  his  task,  and  kept 

the  line 
He  bade  thee  go? 

What,  silent  all !  —  art  sad  of  cheer? 

Art  fearful  now  ? 

When  God  seemed  far  and  men  were 
near, 

How  brave  wert  thou ! 

Aha!  thou  tremblest!  —  well  I  see 

Thou  'rt  craven  grown. 
Is  it  so  hard  with  God  and  me 

To  stand  alone?  — 

Summon  thy  sunshine  bravery  back, 

O  wretched  sprite! 

Let  me  hear  thy  voice   through  this 
deep  and  black 

Abysmal  night. 

What  hast  thou  wrought  for  Right  and 

Truth, 

For  God  and  Man, 
From  the  golden  hours  of  bright-eyed 

youth 
To  life's  mid  span  ? 

Ah,  soul  of  mine,  thy  tones  I  hear, 

But  weak  and  low, 
Like  far  sad  murmurs  on  my  ear 

They  come  and  go. 

"I    have   wrestled   stoutly  with    the 
Wrong, 

And  borne  the  Right 
From  beneath  the  footfall  of  the  throng 

To  life  and  light. 

"  Wherever  Freedom  shivered  a  chain, 
God  speed,  quoth  I ; 


To  Error  amidst  her  shouting  train 
I  gave  the  lie." 

Ah,  soul  of  mine!  ah,  soul  of  mine! 

Thy  deeds  are  well : 
Were  they  wrought  for  Truth's  sake  or 
for  thine? 

My  soul,  pray  tell. 

"Of    all    the    work    my   hand   hath 
wrought 

Beneath  the  sky, 
Save  a  place  in  kindly  human  thought, 

No  gain  have  I." 

Go  to,  go  to !  —  for  thy  very  self 

Thy  deeds  were  done  : 
Thou  for  fame,  the  miser  for  pelf, 

Your  end  is  one ! 

And   where   art  thou   going,  soul  of 
mine  ? 

Canst  see  the  end? 
And  whither  this  troubled  life  of  thine 

Evermore  doth  tend  ? 

What  daunts  thee  now  ? — what  shakes 
thee  so? 

My  sad  soul  say. 
"  I  see  a  cloud  like  a  curtain  low 

Hang  o'er  my  way. 

"Whither  I  go  I  cannot  tell  : 
That  cloud  hangs  black, 

High  as  the  heaven  and  deep  as  hell 
Across  my  track. 

"  I  see  its  shadow  coldly  enwrap 

The  souls  before. 
Sadly  they  enter  it,  step  by  step, 

To  return  no  more. 

"  They   shrink,    they    shudder,   dear 

God!  they  kneel 
To  thee  in  prayer. 
They  shut  their  eyes  on  the  cloud,  but 

feel 
That  it  still  is  there. 

"In  vain   they  turn   from  the  dread 
Before 


120 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


To  the  Known  and  Gone  ; 
For  while  gazing  behind  them  ever- 
more 
Their  feet  glide  on. 

"  Yet,  at  times,  I  see  upon  sweet  pale 
faces 

A  light  begin 
To  tremble,  as  if  from  holy  places 

And  shrines  within. 

"And  at  times  methinks  their  cold 

lips  move 

With  hymn  and  prayer, 
As  if  somewhat  of  awe,  but  more  of 

love 
And  hope  were  there. 

"  I  call  on  the  souls  who  have  left  the 
light 

To  reveal  their  lot ; 
I  bend  mine  ear  to  that  wall  of  night, 

And  they  answer  not. 

"  But  I  hear  around  me  sighs  of  pain 

And  the  cry  of  fear, 
And  a  sound  like  the  slow  sad  drop- 
ping of  rain, 

Each  drop  a  tear ! 

uAh,  the  cloud  is  dark,  and  day  by 
day 

I  am  moving  thither: 
I  must  pass  beneath  it  on  my  way  — 

God  pity  me! — WHITHER?  " 

Ah,  soul  of  mine!  so  brave  and  wise 

In  the  life-storm  loud, 
Fronting  so  calmly  all  human  eyes 

In  the  sunlit  crowd! 

Now  standing  apart  with  God  and  me 

Thou  art  weakness  all, 
Gazing  vainly  after  the  things  to  be 

Through  Death's  dread  wall. 

But  never  for  this,  never  for  this 

Was  thy  being  lent ; 
For  the  craven's  fear  is  but  selfishness, 

Like  his  merriment. 


Folly  and  Fear  are  sisters  twain : 

One  closing  her  eyes, 
The  other  peopling  the  dark  inane 

With  spectral  lies. 

Know  well,  my  soul,  God's  hand  con- 
trols 

Whate'er  thou  fearest ; 
Round  him  in  calmest  music  rolls 

Whate'er  thou  nearest. 

What  to  thee  is  shadow,  to  him  is 
day, 

And  the  end  he  knoweth, 
And  not  on  a  blind  and  aimless  way 

The  spirit  goeth. 

Man   sees    no    future,  —  a    phantom 

show 

Is  alone  before  him  : 
Past  Time  is  dead,  and  the  grasses 

grow, 
And  flowers  bloom  o'er  him. 

Nothing  before,  nothing  behind ; 

The  steps  of  Faith 
Fall  on  the  seeming  void,  and  find 

The  rock  beneath. 

The  Present,  the  Present  is  all  thou 
hast 

For  thy  sure  possessing  ; 
Like  the  patriarch's  angel  hold  it  fast 

Till  it  gives  its  blessing. 

Why  fear  the  night?  why  shrink  from 

Death, 

That  phantom  wan? 
There  is  nothing  in  heaven  or  earth 

beneath 
Save  God  and  man. 

Peopling  the  shadows  we  turn  from 
Him 

And  from  one  another ; 
All  is  spectral  and  vague  and  dim 

Save  God  and  our  brother! 

Like  warp  and  woof  all  destinies 
Are  woven  fast, 


TO  A  FRIEND. 


121 


Linked  in  sympathy  like  the  keys 
Of  an  organ  vast. 

Pluck  one  thread,  and  the  web  ye  mar ; 

Break  but  one 

Of  a  thousand  keys,  and  the  paining 
jar 

Through  all  will  run. 

O  restless  spirit!  wherefore  strain 

Beyond  thy  sphere? 
Heaven  and  hell,  with  their  joy  and 
pain, 

Are  now  and  here. 

Back  to  thyself  is  measured  well 

All  thou  hast  given  ; 
Thy  neighbors  wrong  is  thy  present 
hell, 

His  bliss,  thy  heaven. 

And  in  life,  in  death,  in  dark  and  light, 

All  are  in  God's  care ; 
Sound   the   black   abyss,  pierce    the 
deep  of  night, 

And  he  is  there! 

All  which  is  real  now  remaineth, 

And  fadeth  never : 

The  hand  which  upholds  it  now  sus- 
taineth 

The  soul  forever. 

Leaning  on  him,  make  with  reverent 

meekness 
His  own  thy  will, 
And  with  strength  from  Him  shall  thy 

utter  weakness 
Life's  task  fulfil ; 

And  that  cloud  itself,  which  now  be- 
fore thee 

Lies  dark  in  view, 
Shall  with  beams  of  light  from  the 

inner  glory 
Be  stricken  through. 

And  like  meadow  mist  through  au- 
tumn's dawn 
Uprolling  thin, 


Its   thickest  folds   when  about  thee 

drawn 
Let  sunlight  in. 

Then  of  what  is  to  be,  and  of  what  is 
done, 

Why  queriest  thou?  — 
The  past  and  the  time  to  be  are  one, 

And  both  are  NOW! 


'TO   A   FRIEND, 

ON   HER   RETURN   FROM    EUROPE". 

How  smiled  the  land  of  France 
Under  thy  blue  eye's  glance, 

Light-hearted  rover! 
Old  walls  of  chateaux  gray, 
Towers  of  an  early  day, 
Which  the  Three  Colors  play 

Flauntingly  over. 

Now  midst  the  brilliant  train 
Thronging  the  banks  of  Seine  : 
Now  midst  the  splendor 
Of  the  wild  Alpine  range, 
Waking  with  change  on  change 
Thoughts  in  thy  young  heart  strange, 
—  Lovely,  and  tender.  • 

Vales,  soft  Elysian, 
Like  those  in  the  vision 

Of  Mirza,  when,  dreaming, 
He  saw  the  long  hollow  dell, 
Touched  by  the  prophet's  spell, 
Into  an  ocean  swell 

With  its  isles  teeming. 

Cliffs  wrapped  in  snows  of  years,    . 
Splintering  with  icy  spears 

Autumn's  blue  heaven : 
Loose  rock  and  frozen  slide. 
Hung  on  the  mountain-side, 
Waiting  their  hour  to  glide 

Downward,  storm-driven ! 

Rhine  stream,  by  castle  old, 
Baron's  and  robber's  hold, 
Peacefully  flowing ; 


122 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Sweeping  through  vineyards  green, 
Or  where  the  cliffs  are  seen 
O'er  the  broad  wave  between 

Grim  shadows  throwing. 

Or,  where  St.  Peter's  dome 
Swells  o'er  eternal  Rome, 

Vast,  dim,  and  solemn,  — 
Hymns  ever  chanting  low,  — 
Censers  swung  to  and  fro,  — 
Sable  stoles  sweeping  slow 

Cornice  and  column!  • 

O,  as  from  each  and  all 
Will  there  not  voices  call 

Evermore  back  again  ? 
In  the  mind's  gallery 
Wilt  thou  not  always  see 
Dim  phantoms  beckon  thee 

O'er  that  old  track  again? 

New  forms  thy  presence  haunt,  — 
New  voices  softly  chant,  — 

New  faces  greet  thee!  — 
Pilgrims  from  many  a  shrine 
Hallowed  by  poet's  line, 
At  memory's  magic  sign, 

Rising  to  meet  thee. 

And  when  such  visions  come 
Unto  thy  olden  home, 

Will  they  not  waken 
Deep  thoughts  of  Him  whose  hand 
Led  thee  o'er  sea  and  land 
Back  to  the  household  band 

Whence  thou  wast  taken  ? 

While,  at  the  sunset  time, 
Swells  the  cathedral's  chime, 

Yet,  in  thy  dreaming, 
While  to  thy  spirit's  eye 
Yet  the  vast  mountains  lie 
Piled  in  the  Svvitzer's  sky, 

Icy  and  gleaming: 

Prompter  of  silent  prayer, 
Be  the  wild  picture  there 

In  the  mind's  chamber, 
And,  through  each  coming  day 
Him  who,  as  staff  and  stay, 


Watched  o'er  thy  wandering  way, 
Freshly  remember. 

So,  when  the  call  shall  be 
Soon  or  late  unto  thee, 

As  to  all  given, 
Still  may  that  picture  live, 
All  its  fair  forms  survive, 
And  to  thy  spirit  give 

Gladness  in  Heaven! 


THE     ANGEL     OF     PATIENCE. 

A  FREE  PARAPHRASE  OF  THE 
GERMAN. 

To  weary  hearts,  to  mourning  homes, 
God's  meekest  Angel  gently  comes : 
No  power  has  he  to  banish  pain, 
Or  give  us  back  our  lost  again ; 
And  yet  in  tenderest  love,  our  dear 
And  Heavenly  Father  sends  him  here. 

There 's  quiet  in  that  Angel's  glance, 
There's  rest  in  his  still  countenance! 
He  mocks  no  grief  with  idle  cheer, 
Nor  wounds  with  words  the  mourner's 

ear ; 

But  ills  and  woes  he  may  not  cure 
He  kindly  trains  us  to  endure. 

Angel  of  Patience!  sent  to  calm 
Our     feverish     brows     with     cooling 

palm  ; 

To  lay  the  storms  of  hope  and  fear, 
And  reconcile  life's  smile  and  tear; 
The  throbs  of  wounded  pride  to  still. 
And  make  our  own  our  Father's  will ! 


O  thou  who  mourn est  on  thy  way, 
With  longings  for  the  close  of  day  ; 
He  walks  with  thee,  that  Angel  kind, 
And  gently  whispers,  "  Be  resigned  : 
Bear  up.  bear  on,  the  end  shall  tell 
The   dear  Lord  ordereth   all   things 
well!" 


POLLEN. 


123 


POLLEN. 

ON   READING   HIS   ESSAY   ON   THE 
"FUTURE   STATE." 

FRIEND  of  my  soul !  —  as  with  moist 
eye 

I  look  up  from  this  page  of  thine, 
Is  it  a  dream  that  thou  art  nigh, 

Thy  mild  face  gazing  into  mine? 

That  presence  seems  before  me  now, 
A  placid  heaven  of  sweet  moonrise, 

When,  dew-like,  on  the  earth  below 
Descends  the  quiet  of  the  skies. 

The    calm  brow  through    the  parted 

hair, 
The    gentle   lips   which    knew    no 

guile, 
Softening  the   blue   eye's    thoughtful 

care 

With    the   bland   beauty   of    their 
smile. 

Ah   me!  —  at   times  that   last   dread 

scene 
Of  Frost   and   Fire   and  moaning 

Sea,  _ 

Will  cast  its  shade  of  doubt  between 
The  failing  eyes  of  Faith  and  thee. 

Yet,  lingering  o'er  thy  charmed  page, 
Where  through  the  twilight  air  of 

earth, 
Alike  enthusiast  and  sage, 

Prophet    and    bard,    thou    gazest 
forth  ; 

Lifting  the  Future's  solemn  veil ; 

The  reaching  of  a  mortal  hand 
To  put  aside  the  cold  and  pale 

Cloud-curtains  of  the  Unseen  Land  ; 

In  thoughts  which  answer  to  my  own, 
In  words  which  reach  my  inward 

ear, 

Like    whispers    from    the    void   Un- 
known, 
I  feel  thy  living  presence  here. 


The  waves  which  lull  thy  body's  rest, 
The    dust    thy    pilgrim    footsteps 

trod, 

Unwasted,  through  each  change,  at- 
test 
The  fixed  economy  of  God. 

Shall  these  poor  elements  outlive 
The  mind  whose   kingly  will  they 
wrought  ? 

Their  gross  unconsciousness  survive 
Thy  godlike  energy  of  thought? 

THOU  LIVEST,  FOLLEN!  —  not  in  vain 
Hath  thy  fine  spirit  meekly  borne 

The  burthen  of  Life's  cross  of  pain, 
And  the  thorned  crown  of  suffering 
wrorn. 

O,     while     Life's      solemn     mystery 

glooms 

Around  us  like  a  dungeon's  wall,  — 
Silent  earth's  pale  and  crowded  tombs, 
Silent  the  heaven  which  bends  o'er 
all!  — 

While   day   by  day   our   loved   ones 

glide 

In  spectral  silence,  hushed  and  lone, 
To  the  cold  shadows  which  divide 
The    living   from    the    dread  Un- 
known ; 

While  even  on  the  closing  eye, 
And   on   the   lip  which   moves   in 
vain, 

The  seals  of  that  stern  mystery 
Their  undiscovered  trust  retain  ;  — 

And  only  midst  the  gloom  of  death. 
Its  mournful  doubts  and  haunting 

fears, 
Two  pale,   sweet  angels,    Hope  and 

Faith, 

Smile   dimly  on   us   through  their 
tears ; 

'T  is  something  to  a  heart  like  mine. 
To  think  of  thee  as  living  yet  ; 


124 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


To  feel  that  such  a  light  as  thine 
Could  not  in  utter  darkness  set. 

Less  dreary  seems  the  untried  way 
Since  thou  hast  left  thy  footprints 
there, 

And  beams  of  mournful  beauty  play 
Round  the  sad  Angel's  sable  hair. 

Oh!  —  at   this    hour   when   half  the 

sky 

Is  glorious  with  its  evening  light, 
And  fair  broad  fields  of  summer  lie 
Hung   o'er  with    greenness  in   my 
sight ; 

While  through  these  elm-boughs  wet 

with  rain 

The  sunset's  golden  walls  are  seen, 
With  clover-bloom  and  yellow  grain 
And  wood-draped  hill  and  stream 
between ; 

I  long  to  know  if  scenes  like  this 
Are  hidden  from  an  angel's  eyes  ; 

If  earth's  familiar  loveliness 

Haunts    not   thy  heaven's   serener 
skies. 

For  sweetly  here  upon  thee  grew 
The  lesson  which  that  beauty  gave, 

The  ideal  of  the  Pure  and  True 

In  earth  and  sky  and  gliding  wave. 

And  it  may  be  that  all  which  lends 
The  soul  an  upward  impulse  here, 

With  a  diviner  beauty  blends, 
And  greets  us  in  a  holier  sphere. 

Through  groves  where  blighting  never 

fell 
The  humbler  flowers  of  earth  may 

twine ; 
And  simple  draughts  from  childhood's 

well 
Blend  with  the  angel-tasted  wine. 

But  be  the  prying  vision  veiled, 

And  let  the  seeking  lips  be  dumb,  — 
Where  even  seraph  eyes  have  failed 


Shall     mortal    blindness    seek    to 
come  ? 

We  only  know  that  thou  hast  gone, 
And  that  the  same  returnless  tide 
Which  bore  thee  from  us  still  glides 

on, 

And  we  who   mourn   thee  with   it 
glide. 

On  all  thou  lookest  we  shall  look, 
And  to  our  gaze  erelong  shall  turn 

That  page  of  God's  mysterious  book 
We   so   much  wish,  yet   dread  to 
learn. 

With  Him,  before  whose  awful  power 
Thy     spirit     bent     its     trembling 

knee;  — 

Who,  in  the  silent  greeting  flower, 
And    forest    leaf,   looked    out    on 
thee, — 

We  leave  thee,  with  a  trust  serene, 
Which     Time,    nor    Change,    nor 

Death  can  move, 
While    with   thy   childlike    faith    we 

lean, 

On   Him   whose   dearest  name   is 
Love ! 


TO   THE   REFORMERS   OF 
ENGLAND. 

GOD  bless  ye,  brothers!  —  in  the  fight 
Ye  're  waging  now,  ye  cannot  fail, 

For  better  is  your  sense  of  right 
Than  king-craft's  triple  mail. 

Than  tyrant's  law,  or  bigot's  ban, 
More  mighty  is  your  simplest  word  ; 

The  free  heart  of  an  honest  man 
Than  crosier  or  the  sword. 

Go,  —  let  your  bloated  Church  rehearse 
The  lesson  it  has  learned  so  well ; 

It  moves  not  with  its  prayer  or  curse 
The  gates  of  heaven  or  hell. 


THE  QUAKER  OF  THE   OLDEN  TIME. 


125 


Let  the  State  scaffold  rise  again,  — 
Did  Freedom  die  when  Russell  died  ? 

Forget  ye  how  the  blood  of  Vane 
From  earth's  green  bosom  cried? 

The  great  hearts  of  your  olden  time 
Are  beating  with  you,  full  and  strong 

All  holy  memories  and  sublime 
And  glorious  round  ye  throng. 

The  bluff,  bold  men  of  Runnymede 
Are  with  ye  still  in  times  like  these  ; 

The  shades  of  England's  mighty  dead, 
Your  cloud  of  witnesses ! 

The  truths  ye  urge  are  borne  abroad 
By  every  wind  and  every  tide ; 

The  voice  of  Nature  and  of  God 
Speaks  out  upon  your  side. 

The  weapons  which  your  hands  have 

found 
Are  those  which  Heaven  itself  has 

wrought. 

Light,  Truth,  and  Love  ; — your  battle- 
ground 
The  free,  broad  field  of  Thought. 

No  partial,  selfish  purpose  breaks 
The  simple  beauty  of  your  plan, 

Nor  lie  from  throne  or  altar  shakes 
Your  steady  faith  in  man. 

The  languid  pulse  of  England  starts 
And  bounds  beneath  your  words  of 
power, 

The  beating  of  her  million  hearts 
Is  with  you  at  this  hour! 

O  ye  who,  with  undoubting  eyes, 
Through  present  cloud  and  gather- 
ing storm, 

Behold  the  span  of  Freedom's  skies, 
And  sunshine  soft  and  warm,  — 

Press  bravely  onward!  —  not  in  vain 
Your  generous  trust  in  human-kind  ; 

The  good  which  bloodshed  could  not 

gain 
Your  peaceful  zeal  shall  find. 


Press  on!  —  the  triumph  shall  be  won 
Of  common  rights  and  equal  laws, 

The  glorious  dream  of  Harrington, 
And  Sidney's  good  old  cause. 

Blessing  the  cotter  and  the  crown, 
Sweetening  worn  Labor's  bitter  cup  ; 

And,  plucking  not  the  highest  down. 
Lifting  the  lowest  up. 

Press  on ! — and  we  who  may  not  share 
The  toil  or  glory  of  your  fight 

May  ask,  at  least,  in  earnest  prayer, 
God's  blessing  on  the  right! 


THE  QUAKER  OF  THE  OLDEN 
TIME. 

THE  Quaker  of  the  olden  time!  — 

How  calm  and  firm  and  true, 
Unspotted  by  its  wrong  and  crime, 

He  walked  the  dark  earth  through. 
The  lust  of  power,  the  love  of  gain, 

The  thousand  lures  of  sin 
Around  him,  had  no  power  to  stain 

The  purity  within. 

With  that  deep  insight  which  detects 

All  great  things  in  the  small, 
And  knows  how  each  man's  life  affects 

The  spiritual  life  of  all, 
He  walked  by  faith  and  not  by  sight, 

By  love  and  not  by  law ; 
The  presence  of  the  wrong  or  right 

He  rather  felt  than  saw. 

He  felt  that  wrong  with  wrong  partakes, 

That  nothing  stands  alone, 
That  whoso  gives  the  motive,  makes 

His  brother's  sin  his  own. 
And,  pausing  not  for  doubtful  choice 

Of  evils  great  or.  small. 
He  listened  to  that  inward  voice 

Which  called  away  from  all. 

O  spirit  of  that  early  day, 
So  pure  and  strong  and  true, 

Be  with  us  in  the  narrow  way 
Our  faithful  fathers  knew. 


126 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Give  strength  the  evil  to  forsake, 
The  cross  of  Truth  to  bear, 

And  love  and  reverent  fear  to  make 
Our  daily  lives  a  prayer! 


THE   REFORMER. 

ALL  grim  and  soiled  and  brown  with 

tan, 

I  saw  a  Strong  One,  in  his  wrath, 
Smiting  the  godless  shrines  of  man 
Along  his  path. 

The  Church,  beneath   her  trembling 

dome 

Essayed  in  vain  her  ghostly  charm  : 
Wealth  shook  within  his  gilded  home 
With  strange  alarm. 

Fraud  from  his  secret  chambers  fled 

Before  the  sunlight  bursting  in  : 
Sloth  drew  her  pillow  o'er  her  head 
To  drown  the  din. 

"  Spare,"  Art  implored, "  yon  holy  pile ; 
That  grand,  old,  time-worn  turret 

spare  " ; 

Meek  Reverence,  kneeling  in  the  aisle, 
Cried  out,  "  Forbear !  " 

Gray-bearded  Use,  who,  deaf  and  blind, 
Groped  for  his  old  accustomed  stone, 
Leaned  on  his  staff,  and  wept  to  find 
His  seat  o'erthrown. 

Young  Romance   raised   his   dreamy 

eyes, 

O'erhung  with  paly  locks  of  gold, — 
"  Why  smite,11  he  asked  in  sad  surprise, 
"The  fair,  the  old?" 

Yet   louder   rang   the   Strong    One's 

stroke, 

Yet  nearer  flashed  his  axe's  gleam; 
Shuddering  and  sick  of  heart  I  woke, 
As  from  a  dream. 

I  looked  :  aside  the  dust-cloud  rolled, — 
The  Waster  seemed  the  Builder  too  ; 


Up  springing  from  the  ruined  Old 
I  saw  the  New. 

'T  was  but  the  ruin  of  the  bad,  — 

The  wasting  of  the  wrong  and  ill ; 
Whate'er  of  good  the  old  time  had 
Was  living  still. 

Calm  grew  the  brows  of  him  I  feared  ; 
The  frown  which  awed  me  passed 

away, 

And  left  behind  a  smile  which  cheered 
Like  breaking  day. 

The  grain  grew  green  on  battle-plains, 
O'er  swarded  war-mounds  grazed 

the  cow ; 

The  slave  stood  forging  from  his  chains 
The  spade  and  plough. 

Where   frowned    the    fort,    pavilions 

gay 

And   cottage   windows,   flower-en- 
twined, 

Looked  out  upon  the  peaceful  bay 
And  hills  behind. 

Through  vine-wreathed  cups  with  wine 

once  red, 

The  lights  on  brimming  crystal  fell, 
Drawn,  sparkling,  from  the  rivulet  head 
And  mossy  well. 

Through  prison  walls,  like   Heaven- 
sent hope, 
Fresh  breezes  blew,  and  sunbeams 

strayed, 

And  with  the  idle  gallows-rope 
The  young  child  played. 

Where  the  doomed  victim  in  his  cell 
Had  counted  o'er  the  weary  hours, 
Glad   school-girls,  answering  to 
^bell,  * 

Came  crowned  with  flowers. 

Grown  wiser  for  the  lesson  given, 

I  fear  no  longer,  for  I  know 
That,  where  the  share  is  deepest  driven, 
The  best  fruits  grow. 


THE   PRISONER   FOR   DEBT. 


127 


The  outworn  rite,  the  old  abuse, 

The  pious  fraud  transparent  grown, 
The  good  held  captive  in  the  use 
Of  wrong  alone,— 

These   wait    their   doom,   from    that 

great  law 
Which  makes  the  past  time  serve 

to-day ; 

And  fresher  life  the  world  shall  draw 
From  their  decay. 

O.  backward-looking  son  of  time! 
The  new  is  old,  the  old  is  new, 
The  cycle  of  a  change  sublime 
Still  sweeping  through. 

So  wisely  taught  the  Indian  seer  ; 

Destroying  Seva,  forming  Brahm, 
Who  wake  by  turns  Earth's  love  and 

fear, 
Are  one,  the  same. 

As  idly  as,  in  that  old  day, 

Thou  mournest,  did  thy  sires  repine, 
So,  in  his  time,  thy  child  grown  gray 
Shall  sigh  for  thine. 

Yet,  not  the  less  for  them  or  thou 

The  eternal  step  of  Progress  beats 
To  that  great  anthem,  calm  and  slow, 
Which  God  repeats! 

Take     heart!  — the     Waster     builds 

again,— 

A  charmed  life  old  Goodness  hath  : 
The  tares  may  perish,  —  but  the  grain 

Is  not  for  death. 

God  works  in  all  things ;  all  obey 

His  first  propulsion  from  the  night : 
Ho,  wake  and  watch !  —  the  world  is 

gray 
With  morning  light! 


THE   PRISONER   FOR   DEBT. 

LOOK  on  him !  —  through  his  dungeon 

grate 
Feebly  and  cold,  the  morning  light 


Comes  stealing  round  him,  dim  and 

late, 

As  if  it  loathed  the  sight. 
Reclining  on  his  strawy  bed, 
His  hand  upholds  his  drooping 

head, — 
His  bloodless   cheek  is  seamed  and 

hard, 

Unshorn  his  gray,  neglected  beard  ; 
And  o'er  his  bony  fingers  flow 
His  long,  dishevelled  locks  of  snow. 

No  grateful  fire  before  him  glows, 
And    yet    the    winter's    breath    is 

chill  ; 
And  o'er  his  half-clad  person  goes 

The  frequent  ague  thrill ! 
Silent,  save  ever  and  anon, 
A  sound,  half  murmur  and  half  groan, 
Forces  apart  the  painful  grip 
Of  the  old  sufferer's  bearded  lip ; 
O  sad  and  crushing  is  the  fate 
Of  old  age  chained  and  desolate ! 

Just   God!  why    lies    that    old    man 

there? 

A  murderer  shares  his  prison  bed, 
Whose    eyeballs,  through  his  horrid 

hair, 

Gleam  on  him,  fierce  and  red ; 
And  the  rude  oath  and  heartless  jeer 
Fall  ever  on  his  loathing  ear, 
And,  or  in  wakefulness  or  sleep, 
Nerve,    flesh,    and   pulses   thrill   and 

creep 

Whene'er  that  ruffian's  tossing  limb, 
Crimson  with  murder,  touches  him ! 

What   has   the   gray-haired   prisoner 

done? 
Has  murder  stained  his  hands  with 

gore? 
Not  so  ;  his  crime's  a  fouler  one  ; 

GOD  MADE  THE  OLD  MAN  POOR! 

For  this  he  shares  a  felon's  cell,  — 
The  fittest  earthly  type  of  hell ! 
For  this,  the  boon  for  which  he  poured 
His   young   blood   on  the    invader's 
sword, 


128 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


And  counted  light  the  fearful  cost, — 
His  blood-gained  liberty  is  lost ! 

And  so,  for  such  a  place  of  rest, 
Old  prisoner,  dropped  thy  blood  as 

rain 
On    Concord's    field,    and    Bunker's 

crest, 

And  Saratoga's  plain? 
Look  forth,  thou  man  of  many  scars, 
Through  thy  dim  dungeon's  iron  bars; 
It  must  be  joy,  in  sooth,  to  see 
Yon  monument  upreared  to  thee,— 
Piled  granite  and  a  prison  cell,  — 
The  land  repays  thy  service  well ! 

Go,  ring  the  bells  and  fire  the  guns, 

And  fling  the  starry  banner  out ; 
Shout  "Freedom!"  till    your  lisping 

ones 

Give  back  their  cradle-shout; 
Let  boastful  eloquence  declaim 
Of  honor,  liberty,  and  fame ; 
Still  let  the  poet's  strain  be  heard, 
With  glory  for  each  second  word, 
And  everything  with  breath  agree 
To  praise  "  our  glorious  liberty!  " 

But  when  the  patron  cannon  jars, 

That  prison's  cold  and  gloomy  wall, 
And    through   its   grates    the   stripes 

and  stars 

Rise  on  the  wind  and  fall, — 
Think  ye  that  prisoner's  aged  ear 
Rejoices  in  the  general  cheer? 
Think  ye  his  dim  and  failing  eye 
Is  kindled  at  your  pageantry? 
Sorrowing   of  soul,   and   chained    of 

limb, 
What  is  your  carnival  to  him  ? 

Down  with  the  LAW  that  binds  him 
thus ! 

Unworthy  freemen,  let  it  find 
No  refuge  from  the  withering  curse 

Of  God  and  human  kind ! 
Open  the  prison's  living  tomb, 
And  usher  from  its  brooding  gloom 
The  victims  of  your  savage  code 
To  the  free  sun  and  air  of  God ; 


No  longer  dare  as  crime  to  brand 
The   chastening   of    the    Almighty's 
hand. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  ON  READING  PAMPHLETS 
PUBLISHED  BY  CLERGYMEN  AGAINST 
THE  ABOLITION  OF  THE  GALLOWS. 

I. 

THE  suns  of  eighteen  centuries  have 

shone 
Since  the    Redeemer  walked  with 

man,  and  made 
The  fisher's  boat,  the  cavern's  floor  of 

stone. 
And  mountain  moss,  a  pillow  for  his 

head ; 
And    He,   who   wandered    with    the 

peasant  Jew, 
And  broke  wfith  publicans  the  bread 

of  shame, 
And    drank,  with  blessings  in  his 

Father's  name, 
The    water  which    Samaria's    outcast 

drew, 
Hath    now   his   temples   upon   every 

shore, 
Altar  and  shrine  and  priest,  — and 

incense  dim 
Evermore    rising,  with  low  prayer 

and  hymn, 
From    lips  which  press  the   temple's 

marble  floor, 

Or  kiss  the  gilded  sign  of  the  dread 
Cross  He  bore. 

II. 

Yet  as  of  old,  when,  meekly  "  doing 
good," 

He  fed  a  blind  and  selfish  multitude, 

And  even  the  poor  companions  of  his 
lot 

With  their  dim  earthly  vision  knew 

him  not, 

How  ill  are  his  high  teachings  under- 
stood! 


LINES. 


129 


Where  He  hath  spoken  Liberty,  the 

priest 
At    his  own  altar  binds  the  chain 

anew ; 
Where  He  hath  bidden  to  Life's  equal 

feast, 
The  starving  many  wait  upon  the 

few; 
Where    He  hath   spoken  Peace,    his 

name  hath  been 
The   loudest   war-cry   of  contending 

men ; 
Priests,  pale  with  vigils,  in  his  name 

have  blessed 
The  unsheathed  sword,  and  laid  the 

spear  in  rest, 
Wet  the  war-banner  with  their  sacred 

wine, 
And  crossed  its  blazon  with  the  holy 

sign ; 
Yea,  in  his  name  who  bade  the  erring 

live, 

And  daily  taught  his  lesson,  —  to  for- 
give!— 
Twisted   the    cord   and   edged  the 

murderous  steel ; 
And,  with  his  words  of  mercy  on  their 

lips, 

Hung  gloating  o'er  the  pincer's  burn- 
ing grips, 

And  the  grim  horror  of  the  strain- 
ing wheel ; 
Fed  the  slow  flame  which  gnawed  the 

victim's  limb, 
Who  saw  before  his  searing  eyeballs 

swim 
The  image  of  their  Christ  in  cruel 

zeal, 
Through    the   black    torment-smoke, 

held  mockingly  to  him! 


in. 

The  blood  which    mingled  with  the 

desert  sand, 
And     beaded    with    its    red     and 

ghastly  dew 

The  vines   and   olives   of  the  Holy 
Land,  — 
K 


The  shrieking  curses  of  the  hunted 
Jew,— 

The    white-sown   bones    of  heretics, 
where'er 

They  sank  beneath  the  Crusade's  holy 
spear,  — 

Goa's  dark  dungeons,  —  Malta's  sea- 
washed  cell, 
WThere  with  the  hymns  the  ghostly 

fathers  sung 

Mingled  the  groans  by  subtle  tor- 
ture wrung, 

Heaven's  anthem   blending  with  the 
shriek  of  hell! 

The  midnight  of  Bartholomew,  —  the 

stake 

Of  Smithfield,  and  that  thrice-ac- 
cursed flame 

Which    Calvin   kindled  by  Geneva's 
lake,— 

New     England's    scaffold,    and    the 
priestly  sneer 

Which    mocked   its    victims    in    that 

hour  of  fear, 

When   guilt   itself  a    human    tear 
might  claim,  — 

Bear   witness,    O  thou  wronged  and 
merciful  One! 

That    Earth's    most    hateful    crimes 
have  in  thy  name  been  done! 


Thank  God!  that  I  have  lived  to  see 

the  time 
When  the  great  truth  begins  at  last 

to  find 
An  utterance  from  the  deep  heart 

of  mankind, 
Earnest  and  clear,  that  ALL  REVENGE 

is  CRIME! 
That  man  is  holier  than  a  creed,— 

that  all 
Restraint   upon   him  must  consult 

his  good, 
Hope's  sunshine  linger  on  his  prison 

wall, 

And  Love  look  in  upon  his  solitude. 
The  beautiful  lesson  which  our  Sav- 
iour taught 


1 3o 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Through  long,  dark  centuries  its  way 

hath  wrought 
Into  the  common  mind  and  popular 

thought ; 
And  words,  to  which  by  Galilee's  lake 

shore 
The    humble    fishers    listened    with 

hushed  oar, 
Have  found   an  echo  in  the  general 

heart, 
And   of  the    public  faith   become  a 

living  part. 


v. 


Who   shall    arrest    this  tendency?  — 

Bring  back 
The  cells  of  Venice  and  the  bigot's 

rack  ? 
Harden   the    softening    human  heart 

again 
To  cold   indifference   to   a  brother's 

pain  ? 
Ye  most  unhappy  men !  —  who,  turned 

away 
From  the  mild  sunshine  of  the  Gospel 

day, 

Grope  in  the  shadows  of  Man's  twi- 
light time, 
What  mean  ye,  that  with  "ghoul-like 

zest  ye  brood, 
O'er  those  foul  altars  streaming  with 

warm  blood, 
Permitted     in     another    age     and 

clime? 
Why  cite  that  law  with  which  the  bigot 

Jew 
Rebuked  the  Pagan's  mercy,  when  he 

knew 

No  evil  in  the  Just  One?  —  Where- 
fore turn 
To  the  dark  cruel  past  ?  —  Can  ye  not 

learn 
From    the    pure    Teacher's  life,  how 

mildly  free 

Is  the  great  Gospel  of  Humanity? 
The  Flamen's  knife  is  bloodless,  and 

no  more 

Mexitli's  altars  soak  with  human  gore, 
No  more  the  ghastly  sacrifices  smoke 


Through  the  green  arches  of  the  Dru- 
id's oak ; 

And  ye  of  milder  faith,  with  your  high 
claim 

Of  prophet-utterance  in  the  Holiest 
name, 

Will   ye   become   the  Druids  of  our 

time  ! 

Set  up  your  scaffold-altars  in  our 
land, 

And,    consecrators  of  Law's  darkest 

crime, 

Urge   to    its   loathsome   work    the 
hangman's  hand? 

Beware,  —  lest  human  nature,  roused 
at  last, 

From  its  peeled  shoulder  your  encum- 
brance cast, 

And,  sick  to  loathing  of  your  cry 
for  blood, 

Rank  ye  with  those  who  led  their  vic- 
tims round 

The  Celt's  red  altar  and  the  Indian's 

mound, 

Abhorred  of  Earth  and  Heaven, — 
a  pagan  brotherhood ! 


THE   HUMAN    SACRIFICE. 


FAR  from  his  close  and  noisome  cell, 

By  grassy  lane  and  sunny  stream, 
Blown   clover    field   and    strawberry 

dell, 
And  green  and  meadow  freshness,  fell 

The  footsteps  of  his  dream. 
Again  from  careless  feet  the  dew 

Of  summers  misty  morn  he  shook  ; 
Again  with  merry  heart  he  threw 

His  light  line  in  the  rippling  brook. 
Back    crowded     all    his    school-day 
joys.  — 

He  urged  the  ball  and  quoit  again, 
And  heard  the  shout  of  laughing  boys 

Come  ringing  down  the  walnut  glen. 
Again  he  felt  the  western  breeze, 

With  scent  of  flowers  and  crisping 
hay; 


THE   HUMAN   SACRIFICE. 


And  down  again  through  wind-stirred 

trees 

He  saw  the  quivering  sunlight  play. 
An  angel  in  home's  vine-hung  door, 
He  saw  his  sister  smile  once  more  ; 
Once  more  the  truant's  brown-locked 

head 

Upon  his  mother's  knees  was  laid, 
And  sweetly  lulled  to  slumber  there, 
With  evening's  holy  hymn  and  prayer ! 

II. 

He  woke.  At  once  on  heart  and  brain 
The  present  Terror  rushed  again,  — 
Clanked  on  his  limbs  the  felon's  chain ! 
He  woke,  to  hear  the  church-tower  tell 
Time's  footfall  on  the  conscious  bell, 
And,  shuddering,  feel  that  clanging 

din 

His  life's  LAST  HOUR  had  ushered  in  ; 
To  see  within  his  prison-yard, 
Through     the    small     window,    iron 

barred, 

The  gallows  shadow  rising  dim 
Between    the    sunrise     heaven     and 

him, — 
A  horror  in  God's  blessed  air,  — 

A  blackness  in  his  morning  light,  — 
Like  some  foul  devil-altar  there 

Built  up  by  demon  hands  at  night. 

And,  maddened  by  that  evil  sight, 
Dark,  horrible,  confused,  and  strange, 
A  chaos  of  wild,  weltering  change, 
All  power  of  check  and  guidance  gone, 
Dizzy  and  blind,  his  mind  swept  on. 
In  vain  he  strove  to  breathe  a  prayer, 

In  vain  he  turned  the  Holy  Book, 
He  only  heard  the  gallows-stair 

Creak  as  the  wind  its  timbers  shook. 
No  dream  for  him  of  sin  forgiven, 

While  still  that  baleful  spectre  stood, 

With  its  hoarse  murmur,  "  Blood  for 

Blood  I  " 
Between  him  and  the  pitying  Heaven ! 

III. 

Low  on  his  dungeon  floor  he  knelt, 
And  smote  his  breast,  and  on  his 
chain, 


Whose  iron  clasp  he  always  felt, 

His  hot  tears  fell  like  rain ; 
And    near   him,  with  the  cold,  calm 

look 

And  tone  of  one  whose  formal  part, 
Unwarmed,     unsoftened     of     the 

heart, 

Is  measured  out  by  rule  and  book, 
With  placid  lip  and  tranquil  blood, 
The  hangman's  ghostly  ally  stood, 
Blessing  with  solemn  text  and  word 
The  gallows-drop  and  strangling  cord  ; 
Lending  the  sacred  Gospel's  awe 
And  sanction  to  the  crime  of  Law. 

IV. 

He  saw  the  victim's  tortured  brow, — 
The     sweat    of    anguish    starting 

there,  — 

The  record  of  a  nameless  woe 
In  the  dim  eye's  imploring  stare, 
Seen  hideous  through  the  long,  damp 

hair,  — 

Fingers  of  ghastly  skin  and  bone 
Working  and  writhing  on  the  stone !  — 
And  heard,  by  mortal  terror  wrung 
From   heaving   breast   and    stiffened 

tongue, 
The  choking  sob  and  low  hoarse 

prayer ; 

As  o'er  his  half-crazed  fancy  came 
A  vision  of  the  eternal  flame,  — 
Its  smoking  cloud  of  agonies, — 
Its  demon-worm  that  never  dies, — 
The  everlasting  rise  and  fall 
Of  fire-waves  round  the  infernal  wall ; 
While  high  above  that  dark  red  flood, 
Black,  giant-like,  the  gallows  stood  ; 
Two  busy  fiends  attending  there  : 
One  with  cold  mocking  rite  and  prayer, 
The  other  with  impatient  grasp, 
Tightening  the  death-rope's  strangling 

clasp. 

V. 

The  unfelt  rite  at  length  was  done, — 
The  prayer  unheard  at  length  was 

said,  — 
An  hour  had  passed  :  —  the  noonday 


132 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Smote  on  the  features  of  the  dead! 
And  he  who  stood  the  doomed  beside, 
Calm  gauger  of  the  swelling  tide 
Of  mortal  agony  and  fear, 
Heeding  with  curious  eye  and  ear 
Whatever  revealed  the  keen  excess 
Of  man's  extremest  wretchedness  : 
And  who  in  that  dark  anguish  saw 

An  earnest  of  the  victim's  fate, 
The  vengeful  terrors  of  God's  law, 

The  kindlings  of  Eternal  hate,  — 
The  first  drops  of  that  fiery  rain 
Which  beats  the   dark  red  realm  of 

pain, 
Did  he  uplift  his  earnest  cries 

Against  the  crime  of  Law,  which 

gave 

His  brother  to  that  fearful  grave, 
Whereon  Hope's  moonlight  never  lies. 
And  Faith's  white  blossoms  never 

wave 
To    the    soft    breath    of    Memory's 

s  sighs;  — 
Which    sent    a    spirit     marred    and 

stained, 

By  fiends  of  sin  possessed,  profaned, 
In  madness  and  in  blindness  stark, 
Into  the  silent,  unknown  dark? 
No,  —  from   the  wild   and    shrinking 

dread 
With  which  he  saw  the  victim  led 

Beneath  the  dark  veil  which  divides 
Ever  the  living  from  the  dead, 

And  Nature's  solemn  secret  hides, 
The  man  of  prayer  can  only  draw 
New  reasons  for  his  bloody  law ; 
New  faith  in  staying  Murder's  hand 
By  murder  at  that  Law's  command ; 
New  reverence  for  the  gallows-rope, 
As  human  Nature's  latest  hope ; 
Last  relic  of  the  good  old  time, 
When    Power   found    license  for  its 

crime, 

And  held  a  writhing  world  in  check 
By  that  fell  cord  about  its  neck ; 
Stifled  Sedition's  rising  shout, 
Choked  the  young  breath  of  Freedom 

out, 
And  timely  checked  the  words  which 

sprung 


From  Heresy's  forbidden  tongue; 
While  in  its  noose  of  terror  bound. 
The  Church  its  cherished  union  found, 
Conforming,  on  the  Moslem  plan, 
The  motley-colored  mind  of  man, 
Not  by  the  Koran  and  the  Sword, 
But  by  the  Bible  and  the  Cord! 

VI. 

O,  Thou !  at  whose  rebuke  the  grave 
Back  to  warm  life  its  sleeper  gave, 
Beneath  whose  sad  and  tearful  glance 
The  cold  and  changed  countenance 
Broke  the  still  horror  of  its  trance, 
And,  waking,  saw  with  joy  above, 
A  brother's  face  of  tenderest  love  ; 
Thou,  unto  whom  the  blind  and  lame, 
The  sorrowing  and  the  sin-sick  came, 
And  from  thy  very  garment's  hem 
Drew  life  and  healing  unto  them, 
The  burden  of  thy  holy  faith 
Was  love  and  life,  not  hate  and  death, 
Man's  demon  ministers  of  pain, 

The  fiends  of  his  revenge  were  sent 

From  thy  pure  Gospel's  element 
To  their  dark  home  again. 
Thy  name  is  Love!     What,  then,  is 
he, 

Who  in  that  name  the  gallows  rears, 
An  awful  altar  built  to  thee, 

With  sacrifice  of  blood  and  tears? 
O,  once  again  thy  healing  lay 

On  the  blind  eyes  which  knew  thee 

not 
And  let  the  light  of  thy  pure  day 

Melt  in  upon  his  darkened  thought. 
Soften  his  hard,  cold  heart,  and  show 

The   power  which   in   forbearance 

lies, 
And  let  him  feel  that  mercy  now 

Is  better  than  old  sacrifice! 

VII. 

As  on  the  White  Sea's  charmed  shore, 
The  Parsee  sees  his  holy  hill 

With  dunnest  smoke-clouds  curtained 
o'er, 

Yet  knows  beneath  them,  evermore, 
The  low,  pale  fire  is  quivering  still ; 


RANDOLPH   OF    ROANOKE. 


133 


So,  underneath  its  clouds  of  sin, 

The  heart  of  man  retaineth  yet 
Gleams  of  its  holy  origin  ; 

And  half-quenched  stars  that  never 

set, 
Dim  colors  of  its  faded  bow, 

And  early  beauty,  linger  there, 
And  o'er  its  wasted  desert  blow 

Faint  breathings  of  its  morning  air, 
O,  never  yet  upon  the  scroll 
Of  the  sin-stained,  but  priceless  soul. 

Hath     Heaven     inscribed     "DE- 
SPAIR!" 

Cast  not  the  clouded  gem  away, 
Quench  not  the  dim  but  living  ray,  — 

My  brother  man,  Beware! 
With  that  deep  voice  which  from  the 

skies 
Forbade  the  Patriarchs  sacrifice, 

God's  angel  cries,  FORBEAR! 


RANDOLPH    OF   ROANOKE. 

O  MOTHER  EARTH  !  upon  thy  lap 

Thy  weary  ones  receiving, 
And  o'er  them,  silent  as  a  dream, 

Thy  grassy  mantle  weaving, 
Fold  softly  in  thy  long  embrace 

That  heart  so  worn  and  broken, 
And  cool  its  pulse  of  fire  beneath 

Thy  shadows  old  and  oaken. 

Shut  out  from  him  the  bitter  word 

And  serpent  hiss  of  scorning ; 
Nor  let  the  storms  of  yesterday 

Disturb  his  quiet  morning. 
Breathe  over  him  forgetfulness 

Of  all  save  deeds  of  kindness, 
And,  save  to  smiles  of  grateful  eyes, 

Press  down  his  lids  in  blindness. 

There,  where  with  living  ear  and  eye 

He  heard  Potomac's  flowing, 
And,  through  his  tall  ancestral  trees, 

Saw  autumn's  sunset  glowing, 
He  sleeps,  —  still  looking  to  the  west. 

Beneath  the  dark  wood  shadow, 
As  if  he  still  would  see  the  sun 

Sink  down  on  wave  and  meadow. 


Bard,  Sage,  and  Tribune!  — in  himself 

All  moods  of  mind  contrasting, — 
The  tenderest  wail  of  human  woe, 

The  scorn-like  lightning  blasting ; 
The  pathos  which  from  rival  eyes 

Unwilling  tears  could  summon, 
The  stinging  taunt,  the  fiery  burst 

Of  hatred  scarcely  human ! 

Mirth,    sparkling     like     a     diamond 
shower, 

From  lips  of  life-long  sadness  ; 
Clear  picturings  of  majestic  thought 

Upon  a  ground  of  madness  ; 
And  over  all  Romance  and  Song 

A  classic  beauty  throwing, 
And  laurelled  Clio  at  his  side 

Her  storied  pages  showing. 

All  parties  feared  him  :  each  in  turn 

Beheld  its  schemes  disjointed, 
As  right  or  left  his  fatal  glance 

And  spectral  finger  pointed. 
Sworn  foe  of  Cant,  he  smote  it  down 

With  trenchant  wit  unsparing. 
And,  mocking,  rent  with  ruthless  hand 

The  robe  Pretence  was  wearing. 

Too  honest  or  too  proud  to  feign 

A  love  he  never  cherished, 
Beyond  Virginia's  border  line 

His  patriotism  perished. 
While  others  hailed  in  distant  skies 

Our  eagle's  dusky  pinion, 
He  only  saw  the  mountain  bird 

Stoop  o'er  his  Old  Dominion! 

Still  through  each  change  of  fortune 
strange, 

Racked  nerve,  and  brain  all  burning, 
His  loving  faith  in  Mother-land 

Knew  never  shade  of  turning ; 
By  Britain's  lakes,  by  Neva's  wave, 

Whatever  sky  was  o'er  him, 
He  heard  her  rivers'  rushing  sound, 

Her  blue  peaks  rose  before  him. 

He  held  his  slaves,  yet  made  withal 
No  false  and  vain  pretences, 


134 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Nor  paid  a  lying  priest  to  seek 

For  Scriptural  defences. 
His  harshest  words  of  proud  rebuke, 

His  bitterest  taunt  and  scorning, 
Fell  fire-like  on  the  Northern  brow 

That  bent  to  him  in  fawning. 

He  held  his  slaves  ;  yet  kept  the  while 

His  reverence  for  the  Human ; 
In  the  dark  vassals  of  his  will 

He  saw  but  Man  and  Woman! 
No  hunter  of  God's  outraged  poor 

His  Roanoke  valley  entered  ; 
No  trader  in  the  souls  of  men 

Across  his  threshold  ventured. 

And  when  the  old  and  wearied  man 

Lay  down  for  his  last  sleeping, 
And  at  his  side,  a  slave  no  more, 

His  brother-man  stood  weeping, 
His  latest  thought,  his  latest  breath, 

To  Freedom's  duty  giving, 
With   failing    tongue   and   trembling 
hand 

The  dying  blest  the  living. 

O,  never  bore  his  ancient  State 

A  truer  son  or  braver! 
None  trampling  with  a  calmer  scorn 

On  foreign  hate  or  favor. 
He  knew  her  faults,  yet  never  stooped 

His  proud  and  manly  feeling 
To  poor  excuses  of  the  wrong 

Or  meanness  of  concealing. 

But  none  beheld  with  clearer  eye 

The  plague-spot  o'er  her  spreading, 
None  heard   more  sure  the  steps  of 
Doom 

Along  her  future  treading. 
For  her  as  for  himself  he  spake, 

When,  his  gaunt  frame  upbracing, 
He   traced    with    dying    hand    "RE- 
MORSE!" 

And  perished  in  the  tracing. 

As  from  the  grave  where  Henry  sleeps, 
From  Vernon's  weeping  willow, 

And  from  the  grassy  pall  which  hides 
The  Sage  of  Monticello, 


So  from  the  leaf-strewn  burial-stone 
Of  Randolph's  lowly  dwelling, 

Virginia!  o'er  thy  land  of  slaves 
A  warning  voice  is  swelling! 

And  hark !  from  thy  deserted  fields 

Are  sadder  warnings  spoken, 
From   quenched    hearths,  where  thy 
exiled  sons 

Their  household  gods  have  broken. 
The  curse  is  on  thee, — wolves  for  men, 

And  briers  for  corn-sheaves  giving! 
O,  more  than  all  thy  dead  renown 

Were  now  one  hero  living! 


DEMOCRACY. 

All  things  whatsoever  ye  would  that  men 
should  do  to  you,  do  ye  even  so  to  them.  — 
Rtatthew  vii.  12. 

BEARER  of  Freedom's  holy  light, 
Breaker  of  Slavery's  chain  and  rod, 

The  foe  of  all  which  pains  the  sight, 
Or  wounds  the  generous  ear  of  God! 

Beautiful  yet  thy  temples  rise, 

Though  there  profaning  gifts  are 
thrown ; 

And  fires  unkindled  of  the  skies 
Are  glaring  round  thy  altar-stone. 

Still  sacred,  —  though  thy  name   be 

breathed 
By  those   whose  hearts  thy  truth 

deride  ; 
And  garlands,  plucked  from  thee,  are 

wreathed 
Around  the  haughty  brows  of  Pride. 

O,  ideal  of  my  boyhood's  time ! 

The  faith  in  which  my  father  stood, 
Even  when  the  sons  of  Lust  and  Crime 

Had  stained  thy  peaceful  courts  with 
blood! 

Still  to  those  courts  my  footsteps  turn, 
For  through  the  mists  which  darken 
there, 


TO   RONGE. 


I  see  the  flame  of  Freedom  burn,  — 
The  Kebla  of  the  patriot's  prayer! 

The  generous  feeling,  pure  and  warm, 
Which  owns  the  rights  of  all  di- 
vine,— 
The     pitying     heart,  —  the     helping 

arm,  — 

The     prompt     self-sacrifice,  —  are 
thine. 

Beneath  thy  broad,  impartial  eye, 
How  fade  the  lines  of  caste  and  birth ! 

How  equal  in  their  suffering  lie 
The  groaning  multitudes  of  earth  ! 

Still  to  a  stricken  brother  true. 

Whatever  clime  hath  nurtured  him  ; 

As  stooped  to  heal  the  wounded  Jew 
The  worshipper  of  Gerizim. 

By  misery  unrepelled,  imawed 

By  pomp  or  power,  thou  seest  a  MAN 

In  prince  or  peasant,  —  slave  or  lord, — 
Pale  priest,  or  swarthy  artisan. 

Through  all  disguise,  form,  place,  or 
name, 

Beneath  the  flaunting  robes  of  sin, 
Through  poverty  and  squalid  shame, 

Thou  lookest  on  the  j>ian  within. 

On  man,  as  man,  retaining  yet, 

Howe'er  debased,  and  soiled,  and 
dim, 

The  crown  upon  his  forehead  set,  — 
The  immortal  gift  of  God  to  him. 

And  there  is  reverence  in  thy  look  ; 
For  that  frail  form  which  mortals 

wear 
The  Spirit  of  the  Holiest  took, 

And  veiled  his  perfect  brightness 
there. 

Not  from  the  shallow  babbling  fount 
Of  vain  philosophy  thou  art ; 

He  who  of  old  on  Syria's  mount 
Thrilled,  warmed,  by  turns,  the  lis- 
tener"^ heart, 


In  holy  words  which  cannot  die, 
In  thoughts  which  angels  leaned  to 

know", 
Proclaimed    thy    message    from    on 

high,  — 
Thy  mission  to  a  world  of  woe. 

That  voice's  echo  hath  not  died! 

From  the  blue  lake  of  Galilee, 
And  Tabor's  lonely  mountain-side, 

It  calls  a  struggling  world  to  thee. 

Thy  name  and  watchword  o'er  this  land 
I  hear  in  every  breeze  that  stirs, 

And  round  a  thousand  altars  stand 
Thy  banded  party  worshippers. 

Not  to  these  altars  of  a  day, 
At  party's  call,  my  gift  I  bring ; 

But  on  thy  olden  shrine  I  lay 
A  freeman's  dearest  offering : 

The  voiceless  utterance  of  his  will, — 
His  pledge  to  Freedom  and  to  Truth, 

That  manhood's  heart  remembers  still 
The  homage  of  his  generous  youth. 

Election  Day,  1843. 


TO   RONGE. 

STRIKE  home,  strong-hearted  man! 
Down  to  the  root 

Of  old  oppression  sink  the  Saxon  steel. 

Thy  work  is  to  hew  down.  In  God's 
name  then 

Put  nerve  into  thy  task.  Let  other 
men 

Plant,  as  they  may,  that  better  tree 
whose  fruit 

The  wounded  bosom  of  the  Church 
shall  heal. 

Be  thou  the  image-breaker.  Let  thy 
blows 

Fall  heavy  as  the  Suabian's  iron  hand, 

On  crown  or  crosier,  which  shall  inter- 
pose 

Between  thee  and  the  weal  of  Father- 
land. 


136 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Leave  creeds  to  closet  idlers.     First 

of  all, 
Shake  thou  all  German   dream-land 

with  the  fall 

Of  that  accursed  tree,  whose  evil  trunk 
Was  spared  of  old  by  Erfurt's  stalwart 

monk. 
Fight  not  with  ghosts  and  shadows. 

Let  us  hear 
The   snap   of  chain-links.      Let   our 

gladdened  ear 
Catch  the  pale  prisoner's  welcome,  as 

the  light 
Follows   thy  axe-stroke,  through  his 

cell  of  night. 
Be  faithful  to  both  worlds  ;  nor  think 

to  feed 
Earth's   starving    millions   with    the 

husks  of  creed. 
Servant  of  Him  whose  mission  high 

and  holy 
Was  to  the  wronged,  the  sorrowing, 

and  the  lowly, 
Thrust  not  his  Eden  promise  from  our 

sphere. 
Distant  and  dim  beyond  the  blue  sky's 

span; 
Like  him  of  Patmos,  see  it,  now  and 

here,  — 
The  New  Jerusalem  comes  down  to 

man! 
Be  warned   by  Luther's  error.     Nor 

like  him, 
When  the  roused  Teuton  dashes  from 

his  limb 

The  rusted  chain  of  ages,  help  to  bind 
His  hands  for  whom  thou  claim'st  the 

freedom  of  the  mind ! 


CHALKLEY   HALL. 

How  bland  and  sweet  the  greeting  of 

this  breeze 
To  him  who  flies 
From  crowded  street  and  red  wall's 

weary  gleam, 
Till  far  behind   him   like  a  hideous 

dream 
The  close  dark  city  lies ! 


Here,   while    the    market    murmurs, 

while  men  throng 
The  marble  floor 
Of  Mammon's  altar,  from  the  crush 

and  din 

Of  the  world's  madness  let  me  gather,  in 
My  better  thoughts  once  more. 

O,  once  again  revive,  while  on  my  ear 

The  cry  of  Gain 
And  low  hoarse  hum  of  Traffic  die 

away, 
Ye  blessed  memories  of  my  early  day 

Like  sere  grass  wet  with  rain !  — 

Once  more  let  God's  green  earth  and 

sunset  air 

Old  feelings  waken  : 
Through  weary  years  of  toil  and  strife 

and  ill, 

O,  let  me  feel  that  my  good  angel  still 
Hath  not  his  trust  forsaken. 

And  well  do  time  and  place  befit  my 

mood : 

Beneath  the  arms 
Of  this  embracing  wood,  a  good  man 

made 
His  home,  like  Abraham  resting   in 

the  shade 
Of  Mamre's  lonely  palms. 

Here,  rich  with  autumn  gifts  of  count- 
less years, 
The  virgin  soil 
Turned  from  the  share  he  guided,  and 

in  rain 
And    summer    sunshine    throve    the 

fruits  and  grain 
Which  blessed  his  honest  toil. 

Here,  from  his  voyages  on  the  stormy 

seas, 

Weary  and  worn, 
He  came  to  meet  his  children  and  to 

bless 

The  Giver  of  all  good  in  thankfulness 
And  praise  for  his  return. 


TO  J.  P. 


137 


And  here  his  neighbors  gathered  in  to 

greet 

Their  friend  again, 
Safe  from  the  wave  and  the  destroy- 
ing gales, 
Which  reap  untimely  green  Bermuda's 

vales, 
And  vex  the  Carib  main. 

To  hear  the  good  man  tell  of  simple 

truth, 

Sown  in  an  hour 
Of  weakness  in  some  far-off  Indian 

isle, 
From  the  parched  bosom  of  a  barren 

soil, 
Raised  up  in  life  and  power  : 

How  at  those  gatherings  in  Barbadian 

vales, 

A  tendering  love 
Came  o'er  him,  like  the  gentle  rain 

from  heaven, 
And  words  of  fitness  to  his  lips  were 

given, 
And  strength  as  from  above  : 

How  the  sad  captive  listened  to  the 

Word, 

Until  his  chain 
Grew  lighter,  and  his  wounded  spirit 

felt 

The  healing  balm  of  consolation  melt 
Upon  its  life-long  pain : 

How  the  armed  warrior  sat  him  down 

to  hear 

Of  Peace  and  Truth, 
And  the  proud  ruler  and  his  Creole 

dame, 
Jewelled  and  gorgeous  in  her  beauty 

came, 
And  fair  and  bright-eyed  youth. 

O,  far  away  beneath  New  England's 

sky, 

Even  when  a  boy, 
Following  my  plough  by  Merrimack's 

green  shore, 


His  simple  record  I  have  pondered  o'er 
With  deep  and  quiet  joy. 

And  hence  this  scene,  in  sunset  glory 

warm,  — 

Its  woods  around, 
Its  still  stream  winding  on  in  light  and 

shade, 

Its  soft,  green  meadows  and  its  up- 
land glade,  — r 
To  me  is  holy  ground. 

And   dearer  far  than   haunts   where 

Genius  keeps 
His  vigils  still ; 
Than  that  where  Avon's  son  of  song 

is  laid, 

Or  Vaucluse    hallowed    by    its    Pe- 
trarch's shade, 
Or  Virgil's  laurelled  hill. 

To  the  gray  walls  of  fallen  Paraclete, 

To  Juliet's  urn, 

Fair   Arno    and    Sorrento's    orange- 
grove, 

Where   Tasso  sang,  let    young   Ro- 
mance and  Love 
Like  brother  pilgrims  turn. 

But  here  a  deeper  and  serener  charm 

To  all  is  given  ; 
And  blessed  memories  of  the  faithful 

dead 

O'er  wood   and   vale  and    meadow- 
stream  have  shed 
The  holy  hues  of  Heaven! 


TO   J.    P. 

NOT  as  a  poor  requital  of  the  joy 
With  which    my   childhood   heard 

that  lay  of  thine, 
Which,  like  an  echo  of  the   song 

divine 
At    Bethlehem   breathed    above   the 

Holy  Boy, 

Bore  to  my  ear  the  Airs  of  Pales- 
tine, — 
Not  to  the  poet,  but  the  man  I  bring 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


In  friendship's  fearless   trust  my  of- 
fering : 
How  much  it  lacks  I  feel,  and  thou 

wilt  see, 
Yet  well  I  know  that  thou  hast  deemed 

with  me 
Life  all  too  earnest,  and  its  time  too 

short 
For  dreamy  ease  and  Fancy's  graceful 

sport ; 
And  girded  for  thy  constant  strife 

with  wrong, 
Like    Nehemiah    fighting    while    he 

wrought 
The  broken  walls  of  Zion,  even  thy 

song 
Hath  a  rude  martial  tone,  a  blow  in 

every  thought! 


THE   CYPRESS-TREE   OF 
CEYLON. 

[IBN  BATUTA,  the  celebrated  Mussulman 
traveller  of  the  fourteenth  century,  speaks 
of  a  cypress-tree  in  Ceylon,  universally  held 
sacred  by  the  natives,  the  leaves  of  which 
were  said  to  fall  only  at  certain  intervals, 
and  he  who  had  the  happiness  to  find  and 
eat  one  of  them,  was  restored,  at  once,  to 
youth  and  vigor.  The  traveller  saw  several 
venerable  JOGEES,  or  saints,  sitting  silent 
and  motionless  under  the  tree,  patiently 
awaiting  the  falling  of  a  leaf.] 

THEY  sat  in  silent  watchfulness 
The  sacred  cypress-tree  about, 

And,    from     beneath    old    wrinkled 

brows 
Their  failing  eyes  looked  out. 

Gray  Age  and  Sickness  waiting  there 
Through  weary  night  and  lingering 
day,  — 

Grim  as  the  idols  at  their  side, 
And  motionless  as  they. 

Unheeded  in  the  boughs  above 

The   song   of  Ceylon's    birds  was 
sweet ; 

Unseen  of  them  the  island  flowers 
Bloomed  brightly  at  their  feet. 


O'er    them    the    tropic    night-storm 

swept, 
The  thunder  crashed  on  rock  and 

hill ; 

The  cloud-fire  on  their  eyeballs  blazed, 
Yet  there  they  waited  still ! 

What  was  the  world  without  to  them? 
The    Moslem's     sunset-call,  —  the 

dance 
Of  Ceylon's     maids,  —  the     passing 

gleam 
Of  battle-flag  and  lance  ? 

They  waited  for  that  falling  leaf 
Of   which   the   wandering    Jogees 
sing : 

Which  lends  once  more  to  wintry  age 
The  greenness  of  its  spring. 

O,  if  these  poor  and  blinded  ones 
In  trustful  patience  wait  to  feel 

O'er  torpid  pulse  and  failing  limb 
A  youthful  freshness  steal ; 

Shall  we,  who  sit  beneath  that  Tree 
Whose   healing    leaves  of  life  are 
shed, 

In  answer  to  the  breath  of  prayer, 
Upon  the  waiting  head ; 

Not  to  restore  our  failing  forms, 
And  build  the  spirit's  broken  shrine, 

But,  on  the  fainting  SOUL  to  shed 
A  light  and  life  divine  ; 

Shall  we  grow  weary  in  our  watch, 
And  murmur  at  the  long  delay  ? 

Impatient  of  our  Father's  time 
And  his  appointed  way? 

Or  shall  the  stir  of  outward  things 
Allure  and  claim  the  Christian's  eye, 

When  on  the  heathen  watcher's  ear 
Their  powerless  murmurs  die? 

Alas !  a  deeper  test  of  faith 

Than  prison  cell  or  martyr's  stake, 
The  self-abasing  watchfulness 

Of  silent  prayer  may  make. 


TO 


139 


We  gird  us  bravely  to  rebuke 

Our  erring  brother  in  the  wrong, — 

And  in  the  ear  of  Pride  and  Power 
Our  warning  voice  is  strong. 

Easier  to  smite  with  Peter's  sword 
Than  "  watch  one   hour  "  in    hum- 
bling prayer. 
Life's  u  great  things,"  like  the  Syrian 

lord, 
Our  hearts  can  do  and  dare. 

But  oh !  we  shrink  from  Jordan's  side, 
From  waters  which  alone  can  save; 

And  murmur  for  Abana's  banks 
And  Pharpar's  brighter  wave. 

O  Thou,  who  in  the  garden's  shade 
Didst  wake  thy  weary  ones  again, 

Who  slumbered  at  that  fearful  hour 
Forgetful  of  thy  pain  ; 

Bend  o'er  us  now,  as  over  them, 
And   set    our   sleep-bound    spirits 
free, 

Nor  leave  us  slumbering  in  the  watch 
Our  souls  should  keep  with  Thee ! 


A   DREAM    OF    SUMMER. 

BLAND  as  the  morning  breath  of  June 

The  southwest  breezes  play  ; 
And,   through    its    haze,    the   winter 
noon 

Seems  warm  as  summer's  day. 
The  snow-plumed  Angel  of  the  North 

Has  dropped  his  icy  spear ; 
Again  the  mossy  earth  looks  forth, 

Again  the  streams  gush  clear. 

The  fox  his  hillside  cell  forsakes, 

The  muskrat  leaves  his  nook, 
The  bluebird  in  the  meadow  brakes 

Is  singing  with  the  brook. 
"  Bear  up,  O  Mother  Nature!"  cry 

Bird,  breeze,  and  streamlet  free  ; 
u  Our  winter  voices  prophesy 

Of  summer  days  to  thee!" 


So,  in  those  winters  of  the  soul, 

By  bitter  blasts  and  drear 
O'erswept  from  Memory's  frozen  pole, 

Will  sunny  days  appear. 
Reviving  Hope  and  Faith,  they  show 

The  soul  its  living  powers, 
And  how  beneath  the  winter's  snow 

Lie  germs  of  summer  flowers! 

The  Night  is  mother  of  the  Day, 

The  Winter  of  the  Spring, 
And  ever  upon  old  Decay 

The  greenest  mosses  cling. 
Behind  the  cloud  the  starlight  lurks, 

Through    showers    the    sunbeams 

fall ; 
For  God,  who  loveth  all  his  works, 

Has  left  his  Hope  with  all! 
4///  ist  month,  1847. 


WITH 


TO , 

COPY     OF      WOOLMAN'S 

JOURNAL. 


"  Get  the  writings  of  John  Woolman  by 
heart."  —  Essays  of  Elia. 

MAIDEN!  with  the  fair  brown  tresses 
Shading  o'er  thy  dreamy  eye, 

Floating  on  thy  thoughtful  forehead 
Cloud  wreaths  of  its  sky. 

Youthful  years  and  maiden  beauty, 
Joy  with  them  should  still  abide, — 

Instinct  take  the  place  of  Duty, 
Love,  not  Reason,  guide. 

Ever  in  the  New  rejoicing, 

Kindly  beckoning  back  the  Old, 

Turning,  with  the  gift  of  Midas, 
All  things  into  gold. 

And  the  passing  shades  of  sadness 
Wearing  even  a  welcome  guise, 

As,  when  some  bright  lake  lies  open 
To  the  sunny  skies, 


140 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Every  wing  of  bird  above  it, 
Every  light  cloud  floating  on, 

Glitters  like  that  flashing  mirror 
In  the  selfsame  sun. 

But  upon  thy  youthful  forehead 
Something  like  a  shadow  lies  ; 

And  a  serious  soul  is  looking 
From  thy  earnest  eyes. 

With  an  early  introversion, 

Through    the    forms    of   outward 

things, 
Seeking  for  the  subtle  essence, 

And  the  hidden  springs. 

Deeper  than  the  gilded  surface 
Hath  thy  wakeful  vision  seen, 

Farther  than  the  narrow  present 
Have  thy  journeyings  been. 

Thou  hast  midst  Life's  empty  noises 
Heard  the  solemn  steps  of  Time, 

And  the  low  mysterious  voices 
Of  another  clime. 

All  the  mystery  of  Being 

Hath  upon  thy  spirit  pressed,  — 

Thoughts    which,  like     the    Deluge 

wanderer, 
Find  no  place  of  rest : 

That  which  mystic  Plato  pondered, 
That  which  Zeno  heard  with  awe, 

And  the  star-rapt  Zoroaster 
In  his  night-watch  saw. 

From  the  doubt  and  darkness  spring- 
ing 

Of  the  dim,  uncertain  Past, 
Moving  to  the  dark  still  shadows 

O'er  the  Future  cast, 

Early  hath  Life's  mighty  question 
Thrilled  within  thy  heart  of  youth, 

With  a  deep  and  strong  beseeching  : 
WHAT  and  WHERE  is  TRUTH? 

Hollow  creed  and  ceremonial, 

Whence  the  ancient  life  hath  fled, 


Idle  faith  unknown  to  action, 
Dull  and  cold  and  dead. 

Oracles,  whose  wire-worked  meanings, 
Only  wake  a  quiet  scorn,  — 

Not  from  these  thy  seeking  spirit 
Hath  its  answer  drawn. 

But,  like  some  tired  child  at  even, 
On  thy  mother  Nature's  breast, 

Thou,  methinks,  art  vainly  seeking 
Truth,  and  peace,  and  rest. 

O'er  that  mother's  rugged  features 
Thou  art  throwing  Fancy's  veil, 

Light  and  soft  as  woven  moonbeams, 
Beautiful  and  frail! 

O'er  the  rough  chart  of  Existence, 
Rocks  of  sin  and  wastes  of  woe, 

Soft   airs   breathe,  and  green  leaves 

tremble, 
And  cool  fountains  flow. 

And  to  thee  an  answer  cometh 
From  the  earth  and  from  the  sky, 

And  to  thee  the  hills  and  waters 
And  the  stars  reply. 

But  a  soul-sufficing  answer 

Hath  no  outward  origin ; 
More  than  Nature's  many  voices 

May  be  heard  within. 

Even  as  the  great  Augustine 

Questioned  earth  and  sea  and  sky, 

And  the  dusty  tomes  of  learning 
And  old  poesy. 

But  his  earnest  spirit  needed 

More  than  outward  Nature  taught,  — 

More  than  blest  the  poet's  vision 
Or  the  sage's  thought. 

Only  in  the  gathered  silence 
Of  a  calm  and  waiting  frame 

Light  and  wisdom  as  from  Heaven 
To  the  seeker  came. 


LEGGETTS   MONUMENT. 


141 


Not  to  ease  and  aimless  quiet 
Doth  that  inward  answer  tend, 

But  to  works  of  love  and  duty 
As  our  beings  end,  — 

Not  to  idle  dreams  and  trances, 
Length  of  face,  and  solemn  tone, 

But  to  Faith,  in  daily  striving 
And  performance  shown. 

Earnest  toil  and  strong  endeavor 

Of  a  spirit  which  within 
Wrestles  with  familiar  evil 

And  besetting  sin ; 

And  without,  with  tireless  vigor, 
Steady  heart,  and  weapon  strong, 

In  the  power  of  truth  assailing 
Every  form  of  wrong. 

Guided  thus,  how  passing  lovely 
Is  the  track  of  WOOLMAN'S  feet! 

And  his  brief  and  simple  record 
How  serenely  sweet! 

O'er  life's  humblest  duties  throwing 
Light  the  earthling  never  knew, 

Freshening  all  its  dark  waste  places 
As  with  Hermon's  dew. 

All  which  glows  in  Pascal's  pages,  — 
All  which  sainted  Guion  sought, 

Or  the  blue-eyed  German  Rahel 
Half-unconscious  taught :  — 

Beauty  such  as  Goethe  pictured, 
Such  as  Shelley  dreamed  of,  shed 

Living  warmth  and  starry  brightness 
Round  that  poor  man's  head. 

Not  a  vain  and  cold  ideal, 

Not  a  poet's  dream  alone, 
But  a  presence  warm  and  real, 

Seen  and  felt  and  known. 

When  the  red  right-hand  of  slaughter 
Moulders  with  the  steel  it  swung, 

When  the  name  of  seer  and  poet 
Dies  on  Memory's  tongue, 


All  bright  thoughts  and   pure   shall 

gather 
Round    that    meek    and    suffering 

one, — 

Glorious,  like  the  seer-seen  angel 
Standing  in  the  sun ! 

Take  the  good  man's  book  and  ponder 
What  its  pages  say  to  thee,  — 

Blessed  as  the  hand  of  healing 
May  its  lesson  be. 

If  it  only  serves  to  strengthen 
Yearnings  for  a  higher  good, 

For  the  fount  of  living  waters 
And  diviner  food ; 

If  the  pride  of  human  reason 
Feels  its  meek  and  still  rebuke, 

Quailing  like  the  eye  of  Peter 
From  the  Just  One's  look!  — 

If  with  readier  ear  thou  heedest 
What  the  Inward  Teacher  saith, 

Listening  with  a  willing  spirit 
And  a  childlike  faith,  — 

Thou  mayst  live  to  bless  the  giver, 
Who,  himself  but  frail  and  weak, 

Would  at  least  the  highest  welfare 
Of  another  seek ; 

And  his  gift,  though  poor  and  lowly 
It  may  seem  to  other  eyes, 

Yet  may  prove  an  angel  holy 
In  a  pilgrim's  guise. 


LEGGETT'S   MONUMENT. 

"Ye  build  the  tombs  of  the  prophets." 

Holy   Writ. 

YES, — pile  the  marble  o'er  him!     It 

is  well 
That  ye  who  mocked  him  in  his  long 

stern  strife, 
And  planted  in  the  pathway  of  his 

life 

The  ploughshares  of  your  hatred  hot 
from  hell, 


142 


SONGS   OF   LABOR   AND   OTHER   POEMS. 


Who  clamored  down  the  bold  re- 
former when 

He  pleaded  for  his  captive  fellow- 

'    men, 

Who  spurned  him  in  the  market-place, 
and  sought 

Within  thy  walls,  St.  Tammany,  to 

bind 

In  party  chains  the  free  and  honest 
thought, 


The  angel  utterance  of  an  upright 

mind, 
Well  it  is  now  that  o'er  his  grave  ye 

raise 
The     stony    tribute    of    your    tardy 

praise, 
For  not  alone  that  pile  shall  tell  to 

Fame 
Of  the  brave  heart  beneath,  but  of  the 

builders'  shame! 


SONGS    OF    LABOR   AND    OTHER    POEMS,    1850. 


DEDICATION. 

I  WOULD  the  gift  I  offer  here 

Might  graces  from  thy  favor  take, 
And,    seen    through    Friendship's 

atmosphere, 
On   softened    lines   and    coloring, 

wear 

The  unaccustomed  light  of  beauty,  for 
thy  sake. 

Few  leaves  of  Fancy's  spring  re- 
main : 

But  what  I  have  I  give  to  thee,  — 
The  o'er-sunned  bloom  of  summer's 

plain, 

And  paler  flowers,  the  latter  rain 
Calls  from  the  westering  slope  of  life's 
autumnal  lea. 

Above  the  fallen  groves  of  green, 
Where  youth's  enchanted  forest 

stood, 

Dry   root   and   mossed    trunk   be- 
tween, 

A  sober  after-growth  is  seen, 
As  springs  the  pine  where  falls  the 
gay-leafed  maple  wood ! 

Yet   birds   will   sing,   and   breezes 

play 

Their  leaf-harps  in  the  sombre 
tree; 


And  through  the  bleak  and  wintry 

clay 

It  keeps  its  steady  green  alway,  — 
So,  even  my  after-thoughts  may  have 

a  charm  for  thee. 

Art's  perfect  forms  no  moral  need, 

And  beauty  is  its  own  excuse ; 
But  for  the  dull  and  flowerless  weed 
Some  healing  virtue  still  must  plead, 
And  the  rough  ore  must  find  its  honors 
in  its  use. 

So  haply  these,  my  simple  lays 
Of    homely   toil,   may   serve    to 

show 
The    orchard  bloom  and  tasselled 

maize 

That  skirt  and  gladden  duty's  ways, 
The  unsung  beauty  hid  life's  common 
things  below. 

Haply  from  them  the  toiler,  bent 
Above  his  forge  or  plough,  may 

gain 

A  manlier  spirit  of  content, 
And  feel  that  life  is  wisest  spent 
Where  the  strong  working  hand  makes 
strong  the  working  brain. 

The  doom  which  to  the  guilty  pair 
Without  the  walls  of  Eden  came, 
Transforming  sinless  ease  to  care 


THE   SHIP-BUILDERS. 


143 


And  rugged  toil,  no  more  shall  bear 
The  burden  of  old  crime,  or  mark  of 
primal  shame. 

A  blessing  now,  —  a  curse  no  more  ; 
Since  He,  whose  name  we  breathe 

with  awe, 

The  coarse  mechanic  vesture  wore, — 
A  poor  man  toiling  with  the  poor, 
In  labor,  as  in    prayer,  fulfilling  the 
same  law. 


THE    SHIP-BUILDERS. 

THE  sky  is  ruddy  in  the  east, 

The  earth  is  gray  below, 
And,  spectral  in  the  river-mist, 

The  ship's  white  timbers  show. 
Then  let   the    sounds   of    measured 
stroke 

And  grating  saw  begin  ; 
The  broad-axe  to  the  gnarled  oak, 

The  mallet  to  the  pin ! 

Hark!  —  roars    the  bellows,  blast  on 
blast, 

The  sooty  smithy  jars, 
And  fire-sparks,  rising  far  and  fast, 

Are  fading  with  the  stars. 
All  day  for  us  the  smith  shall  stand 

Beside  that  flashing  forge  ; 
All  day  for  us  his  heavy  hand 

The  groaning  anvil  scourge. 

From  far-off  hills,  the  panting  team 

For  us  is  toiling  near  ; 
For  us  the  raftsmen  down  the  stream 

Their  island  barges  steer. 
Rings  out  for  us  the  axe-man's  stroke 

In  forests  old  and  still, — 
For  us  the  century-circled  oak 

Falls  crashing  down  his  hill. 

Up !  —  up !  —  in  nobler  toil  than  ours 
No  craftsmen  bear  a  part : 

We  make  of  Nature's  giant  powers 
The  slaves  of  human  Art. 

Lay  rib  to  rib  and  beam  to  beam, 
And  drive  the  treenails  free ; 


Nor  faithless  joint  nor  yawning  seam 
Shall  tempt  the  searching  sea ! 

Where'er  the  keel  of  our  good  ship 

The  sea's  rough  field  shall  plough, — 
Where'er  her  tossing  spars  shall  drip 

With  salt-spray  caught  below,  — 
That   ship    must    heed   her   master's 
beck, 

Her  helm  obey  his  hand, 
And  seamen  tread  her  reeling  deck 

As  if  they  trod  the  land. 

Her  oaken  ribs  the  vulture-beak 

Of  Northern  ice  may  peel ; 
The  sunken  rock  and  coral  peak 

May  grate  along  her  keel ; 
And  know  we  well  the  painted  shell 

WTe  give  to  wind  and  wave, 
Must  float,  the  sailor's  citadel, 

Or  sink,  the  sailor's  grave ! 

Ho !  —  strike    away    the    bars    and 
blocks, 

And  set  the  good  ship  free ! 
Why  lingers  on  these  dusty  rocks 

The  young  bride  of  the  sea? 
Look!    how   she    moves   adown   the 
grooves, 

In  graceful  beauty  now! 
How  lowly  on  the  breast  she  loves 

Sinks  down  her  virgin  prow ! 

God  bless  her!  wheresoe'er  the  breeze 

Her  snowy  wing  shall  fan, 
Aside  the  frozen  Hebrides, 

Or  sultry  Hindostan! 
Where'er,  in  mart  or  on  the  main, 

With  peaceful  flag  unfurled, 
She  helps  to  wind  the  silken  chain 

Of  commerce  round  the  world ! 

Speed  on   the    ship!  —  But    let   her 
bear 

No  merchandise  of  sin, 
No  groaning  cargo  of  despair 

Her  roomy  hold  within  ; 
No  Lethean  drug  for  Eastern  lands, 

Nor  poison-draught  for  ours  ; 


144 


SONGS   OF   LABOR  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 


But  honest  fruits  of  toiling  hands 
And  Nature's  sun  and  showers. 

Be  hers  the  Prairie's  golden  grain, 

The  Desert's  golden  sand, 
The  clustered  fruits  of  sunny  Spain, 

The  spice  of  Morning-land! 
Her  pathway  on  the  open  main 

May  blessings  follow  free, 
And  glad  hearts  welcome  back  again 

Her  white  sails  from  the  sea! 


THE    SHOEMAKERS. 

Ho!  workers  of  the  old  time  styled 

The  Gentle  Craft  of  Leather ! 
Young  brothers  of  the  ancient  guild, 

Stand  forth  once  more  together! 
Call  out  again  your  long  array, 

In  the  olden  merry  manner! 
Once  more,  on  gay  St.  Crispin's  day, 

Fling  out  your  blazoned  banner! 

Rap,  rap!  upon  the  well-worn  stone 

How  falls  the  polished  hammer! 
Rap,  rap!   the  measured   sound   has 
grown 

A  quick  and  merry  clamor. 
Now  shape  the  sole!  now  deftly  curl 

The  glossy  vamp  around  it, 
And  bless  the  while  the  bright-eyed 
girl 

Whose  gentle  fingers  bound  it! 

For  you,  along  the  Spanish  main 

A  hundred  keels  are  ploughing ; 
For  you,  the  Indian  on  the  plain 

His  lasso-coil  is  throwing ; 
For  you,   deep   glens  with    hemlock 
dark 

The  woodman's  fire  is  lighting ; 
For  you,  upon  the  oak's  gray  bark, 

The  woodman's  axe  is  smiting. 

For  you,  from  Carolina's  pine 
The  rosin-gum  is  stealing ; 

For  you,  the  dark-eyed  Florentine 
Her  silken  skein  is  reeling ; 


For  you,  the  dizzy  goatherd  roams 
His  rugged  Alpine  ledges  ; 

For    you,    round    all    her    shepherd 

homes, 
Bloom  England's  thorny  hedges. 

The  foremost  still,  by  day  or  night, 

On  moated  mound  or  heather, 
Where'er  the  need  of  trampled  right 

Brought  toiling  men  together  ; 
Where   the  free   burghers   from  the 
wall 

Defied  the  mail-clad  master, 
Than   yours,  at   Freedom's  trumpet- 
call, 

No  craftsmen  rallied  faster. 

Let  foplings  sneer,  let  fools  deride, — 

Ye  heed  no  idle  scorner ; 
Free  hands  and  hearts  are  still  your 
pride, 

And  duty  done,  your  honor. 
Ye  dare  to  trust,  for  honest  fame, 

The  jury  Time  empanels, 
And  leave  to  truth  each  noble  name 

Which  glorifies  your  annals. 

Thy  songs,  Han  Sachs,  are  living  yet, 

In  strong  and  hearty  German  ; 
And    Bloomfield's   lay,  and  Gifford's 
wit, 

And  patriot  fame  of  Sherman  ; 
Still  from  his  book,  a  mystic  seer, 

The  soul  of  Behmen  teaches, 
And  England's  priestcraft  shakes  to 
hear 

Of  Fox's  leathern  breeches. 

The  foot  is  yours ;  where'er  it  falls, 

It  treads  your  well-wrought  leather, 
On  earthern  floor,  in  marble  halls, 

On  carpet,  or  on  heather. 
Still  there  the  sweetest  charm  is  found 

Of  matron  grace  or  vestal's, 
As  Hebe's  foot  bore  nectar  round 

Among  the  old  celestials ! 

Rap,  rap !  —  your  stout  and  bluff  bro- 

gan> 
With  footsteps  slow  and  weary, 


THE   DROVERS. 


May  wander  where  the  sky's  blue  span 
Shuts  down  upon  the  prairie. 

On  Beauty's  foot,  your  slippers  glance, 
By  Saratoga's  fountains, 

Or  twinkle  down  the  summer  dance 
Beneath  the  Crystal  Mountains ! 

The  red  brick  to  the  mason's  hand, 

The  brown  earth  to  the  tiller's, 
The  shoe  in  yours  shall  wealth  com- 
mand, 

Like  fairy  Cinderella's! 
As  they  who  shunned  the  household 
maid 

Beheld  the  crown  upon  her, 
So  all  shall  see  your  toil  repaid 

With  hearth  and  home  and  honor. 


Then  let  the  toast  be  freely  quaffed, 

In  water  cool  and  brimming,  — 
"  All  honor  to  the  good  old  Craft, 

Its  merry  men  and  women !  " 
Call  out  again  your  long  array, 

In  the  old  time's  pleasant  manner ; 
Once  more,  on  gay  St.  Crispin's  day, 

Fling  out  his  blazoned  banner! 


THE   DROVERS. 

THROUGH  heat  and  cold,  and  shower 
and  sun, 

Still  onward  cheerly  driving! 
There's  life  alone  in  duty,  done, 

And  rest  alone  in  striving. 
But  see!  the  day  is  closing  cool, 

The  woods  are  dim  before  us  ; 
The  white  fog  of  the  wayside  pool 

Is  creeping  slowly  o'er  us. 

The  night  is  falling,  comrades  mine, 

Our  foot-sore  beasts  are  weary, 
And  through  yon  elms  the  tavern  sign 

Looks  out  upon  us  cheery. 
The  landlord  beckons  from  his  door, 

His  beechen  fire  is  glowing ; 
These  ample  barns,  with  feed  in  store, 

Are  filled  to  overflowing. 


From  many  a  valley  frowned  across 

By  brows  of  rugged  mountains  ; 
From  hillsides  where,  through  spongy 
moss, 

Gush  out  the  river  fountains  ; 
From  quiet  farm-fields,  green  and  low, 

And  bright  with  blooming  clover; 
From   vales   of  corn   the   wandering 
crow 

No  richer  hovers  over ; 

Day  after  day  our  way  has  been, 

O'er  many  a  hill  and  hollow ; 
By  lake  and  stream,  by  wood  and  glen, 

Our  stately  drove  we  follow. 
Through  dust-clouds  rising  thick  and 
dun, 

As  smoke  of  battle  o'er  us, 
Their  white  horns  glisten  in  the  sun, 

Like  plumes  and  crests  before  us. 

We  see  them  slowly  climb  the  hill, 

As  slow  behind  it  sinking ; 
Or,  thronging  close,  from  roadside  rill, 

Or  sunny  lakelet,  drinking. 
Now  crowding  in  the  narrow  road, 

In  thick  and  struggling  masses, 
They  glare  upon  the  teamster's  load, 

Or  rattling  coach  that  passes. 

Anon,  with  toss  of  horn  and  tail, 

And  paw  of  hoof,  and  bellow, 
They  leap  some  farmer's  broken  pale, 

O'er  meadow-close  or  fallow. 
Forth  comes  the  startled  goodman ; 
forth 

Wife,  children,  house-dog,  sally, 
Till  once  more  on  their  dusty  path 

The  baffled  truants  rally. 

We    drive    no    starvelings,    scraggy 
grown, 

Loose-legged,  and  ribbed  and  bony, 
Like   those   who   grind    their    noses 
down 

On  pastures  bare  and  stony, — 
Lank  oxen,  rough  as  Indian  dogs, 

And  cows  too  lean  for  shadows, 
Disputing  feebly  with  the  frogs 

The  crop  of  saw-grass  meadows ! 


I46 


SONGS   OF   LABOR  AND   OTHER   POEMS. 


In  our  good  drove,  so  sleek  and  fair, 

No  bones  of  leanness  rattle  ; 
No  tottering   hide-bound  ghosts  are 
there, 

Or  Pharaoh's  evil  cattle. 
Each  stately  beeve  bespeaks  the  hand 

That  fed  him  unrepining ; 
The  fatness  of  a  goodly  land 

In  each  dun  hide  is  shining. 

We  've  sought  them  where,  in  warmest 

nooks, 

The  freshest  feed  is  growing, 
By    sweetest     springs    and    clearest 

brooks 

Through  honeysuckle  flowing ; 
Wherever  hillsides,  sloping  south, 

Are  bright  with  early  grasses, 
Or,    tracking    green    the    lowland's 

drouth, 
The  mountain  streamlet  passes. 

But  now  the  day  is  closing  cool, 

The  woods  are  dim  before  us, 
The  white  fog  of  the  wayside  pool 

Is  creeping  slowly  o'er  us. 
The  cricket  to  the  frog's  bassoon 

His  shrillest  time  is  keeping ; 
The  sickle  of  yon  setting  moon 

The  meadow-mist  is  reaping. 

The  night  is  falling,  comrades  mine, 

Our  footsore  beasts  are  weary, 
And  through  yon  elms  the  tavern  sign 

Looks  out  upon  us  cheery. 
To-morrow,  eastward  with  our  charge 

We  '11  go  to  meet  the  dawning, 
Ere  yet  the  pines  of  Kearsarge 

Have  seen  the  sun  of  morning. 

When   snow-flakes    o'er    the    frozen 

earth. 

Instead  of  birds,  are  flitting; 
When    children   throng   the  glowing 

hearth, 

And  quiet  wives  are  knitting ; 
While   in   the  fire-light    strong  and 

clear 
Young  eyes  of  pleasure  glisten, 


To  tales  of  all  we  see  and  hear 
The  ears  of  home  shall  listen. 

By  many  a  Northern  lake  and  hill, 

From  many  a  mountain  pasture, 
Shall  Fancy  play  the  Drover  still, 

And  speed  the  long  night  faster. 
Then  let  us  on,  through  shower  and 
sun, 

And  heat  and  cold,  be  driving ; 
There  's  life  alone  in  duty  done, 

And  rest  alone  in  striving. 


THE   FISHERMEN. 

HURRAH  !  the  seaward  breezes 

Sweep  down  the  bay  amain  ; 
Heave  up,  my  lads,  the  anchor! 

Run  up  the  sail  again ! 
Leave  to  the  lubber  landsmen 

The  rail-car  and  the  steed  ; 
The  stars  of  heaven  shall  guide  us, 

The  breath  of  heaven  shall  speed. 

From  the  hill-top  looks  the  steeple, 

And  the  lighthouse  from  the  sand ; 
And  the  scattered  pines  are  waving 

Their  farewell  from  the  land. 
One  glance,  my  lads,  behind  us, 

For  the  homes  we  leave  one  sigh, 
Ere  we  take  the  change  and  chances 

Of  the  ocean  and  the  sky. 

Now,  brothers,  for  the  icebergs 

Of  frozen  Labrador, 
Floating  spectral  in  the  moonshine, 

Along  the  low,  black  shore! 
Where  like  snow  the  gannet's  feathers 

On  Brador's  rocks  are  shed, 
And  the  noisy  murr  are  flying, 

Like  black  scuds,  overhead ; 

Where  in  mist  the  rock  is  hiding, 
And  the  sharp  reef  lurks  below, 

And  the  white  squall  smites  in  summer, 
And  the  autumn  tempests  blow  ; 

Where,  through  gray  and  rolling  vapor, 
From  evening  unto  morn, 


THE   HUSKERS. 


A  thousand  boats  are  hailing, 
Horn  answering  unto  horn. 

Hurrah !  for  the  Red  Island, 

With  the  white  cross  on  its  crown ! 
Hurrah!  for  Meccatina, 

And  its  mountains  bare  and  brown! 
Where  the  Caribou's  tall  antlers 

O'er  the  dwarf-wood  freely  toss, 
And  the  footstep  of  the  Mickmack 

Has  no  sound  upon  the  moss. 

There  we  '11  drop  our  lines,  and  gather 

Old  Ocean's  treasures  in, 
Where'er  the  mottled  mackerel 

Turns  up  a  steel-dark  fin. 
The  sea 's  our  field  of  harvest, 

Its  scaly  tribes  our  grain  ; 
We  '11  reap  the  teeming  waters 

As  at  home  they  reap  the  plain ! 

Our  wet  hands  spread  the  carpet, 

And  light  the  hearth  of  home  ; 
From  our  fish,  as  in  the  old  time, 

The  silver  coin  shall  come. 
As  the  demon  fled  the  chamber 

Where  the  fish  of  Tobit  lay, 
So  ours  from  all  our  dwellings 

Shall  frighten  Want  away. 


Though  the  mist  upon  our  jackets 

In  the  bitter  air  congeals 
And  our  lines  wind  stiff  and  slowly 

From  off  the  frozen  reels  ; 
Though  the  fog  be  dark  around  us, 

And    the    storm    blow    high    and 

loud, 

We    will    whistle     down     the    wild 
wind, 

And  laugh  beneath  the  cloud! 

In  the  darkness  as  in  daylight, 

On  the  water  as  on  land, 
God's  eye  is  looking  on  us, 

And  beneath  us  is  his  hand ! 
Death  will  find  us  soon  or  later, 

On  the  deck  or  in  the  cot ; 
And  we  cannot  meet  him  better 

Than  in  working  out  our  lot. 

Hurrah !  —  hurrah  !  —  the  west-wind 

Comes  freshening  clown  the  bay, 
The  rising  sails  are  filling, — 

Give  way,  my  lads,  give  way! 
Leave   the    coward   landsman    cling- 
ing 

To  the  dull  earth,  like  a  weed,  — 
The  stars  of  heaven  shall  guide  us, 

The  breath  of  heaven  shall  speed! 


THE   HUSKERS. 

IT  was  late  in  mild  October,  and  the  long  autumnal  rain 
Had  left  the  summer  harvest-fields  all  green  with  grass  again; 
The  first  sharp  frosts  had  fallen,  leaving  all  the  woodlands  gay 
With  the  hues  of  summer's  rainbow,  or  the  meadow-flowers  of  May. 


Through  a  thin,  dry  mist,  that  morning,  the  sun  rose  broad  and  red, 
At  first  a  rayless  disk  of  fire,  he  brightened  as  he  sped; 
Yet,  even  his  noontide  glory  fell  chastened  and  subdued, 
On  the  cornfields  and  the  orchards,  and  softly  pictured  wood. 


And  all  that  quiet  afternoon,  slow  sloping  to  the  night, 
He  wove  with  golden  shuttle  the  haze  with  yellow  light ; 
Slanting  through  the  painted  beeches,  he  glorified  the  hill ; 
And,  beneath  it,  pond  and  meadow  lay  brighter,  greener  still. 


148  SONGS   OF   LABOR  AND   OTHER   POEMS. 

And  shouting  boys  in  woodland  haunts  caught  glimpses  of  that  sky, 
Flecked  by  the  many-tinted  leaves,  and  laughed,  they  knew  not  why ; 
And  school-girls,  gay  with  aster-flowers,  beside  the  meadow  brooks, 
Mingled  the  glow  of  autumn  with  the  sunshine  of  sweet  looks. 

From  spire  and  barn,  looked  westerly  the  patient  weathercocks ; 
But  even  the  birches  on  the  hill  stood  motionless  as  rocks. 
No  sound  was  in  the  woodlands,  save  the  squirrel's  dropping  shell, 
And  the  yellow  leaves  among  the  boughs,  low  rustling  as  they  fell. 

The  summer  grains  were  harvested  ;  the  stubble-fields  lay  dry, 
Where  June  winds  rolled,  in  light  and  shade,  the  pale  green  waves  of  rye  ; 
But  still,  on  gentle  hill-slopes,  in  valleys  fringed  with  wood, 
Ungathered,  bleaching  in  the  sun,  the  heavy  corn  crop  stood. 

Bent  low,  by  autumn's  wind  and  rain,  through  husks  that,  dry  and  sere, 
Unfolded  from  their  ripened  charge,  shone  out  the  yellow  ear ; 
Beneath,  the  turnip  lay  concealed,  in  many  a  verdant  fold, 
And  glistened  in  the  slanting  light  the  pumpkin's  sphere  of  gold. 

There  wrought  the  busy  harvesters  ;  and  many  a  creaking  wain 
Bore  slowly  to  the  long  barn-floor  its  load  of  husk  and  grain  ; 
Till  broad  and  red,  as  when  he  rose,  the  sun  sank  down,  at  last, 
And  like  a  merry  guest's  farewell,  the  day  in  brightness  passed. 

And  lo !  as  through  the  western  pines,  on  meadow,  stream,  and  pond, 
Flamed  the  red  radiance  of  a  sky,  set  all  afire  beyond. 
Slowly  o'er  the  eastern  sea-bluffs  a  milder  glory  shone, 
And  the  sunset  and  the  moonrise  were  mingled  into  one! 

As  thus  into  the  quiet  night  the  twilight  lapsed  away, 
And  deeper  in  the  brightening  moon  the  tranquil  shadows  lay ; 
From  many  a  brown  old  farm-house,  and  hamlet  without  name, 
Their  milking  and  their  home-tasks  done,  the  merry  huskers  came. 

Swung  o'er  the  heaped-up  harvest,  from  pitchforks  in  the  mow, 

Shone  dimly  down  the  lanterns  on  the  pleasant  scene  below ; 

The  growing  pile  of  husks  behind,  the  golden  ears  before, 

And  laughing  eyes  and  busy  hands  and  brown  cheeks  glimmering  o'er. 

Half  hidden  in  a  quiet  nook,  serene  of  look  and  heart, 

Talking  their  old  times  over,  the  old  men  sat  apart ; 

While,  up  and  down  the  unhusked  pile,  or  nestling  in  its  shade, 

At  hide-and-seek,  with  laugh  and  shout,  the  happy  children  played. 

Urged  by  the  good  host's  daughter,  a  maiden  young  and  fair, 
Lifting  to  light  her  sweet  blue  eyes  and  pride  of  soft  brown  hair, 
The  master  of  the  village  school,  sleek  of  hair  and  smooth  of  tongue, 
To  the  quaint  tune  of  some  old  psalm,  a  husking-ballad  sung. 


THE   LUMBERMEN. 


149 


THE   CORN-SONG. 

HEAP  high  the  farmer's  wintry  hoard ! 

Heap  high  the  golden  corn ! 
No  richer  gift  has  Autumn  poured 

From  out  her  lavish  horn! 

Let  other  lands,  exulting,  glean 

The  apple  from  the  pine, 
The  orange  from  its  glossy  green, 

The  cluster  from  the  vine ; 

We  better  love  the  hardy  gift 

Our  rugged  vales  bestow, 
To  cheer  us  when  the  storm  shall  drift 

Our  harvest-fields  with  snow. 

Through  vales  of  grass  and  meads  of 
flowers, 

Our  ploughs  their  furrows  made, 
While  on  the  hills  the  sun  and  showers 

Of  changeful  April  played. 

We  dropped  the  seed  o'er  hill  and  plain, 

Beneath  the  sun  of  May, 
And  frightened  from  our   sprouting 
grain 

The  robber  crows  away. 

All  through  the  long,  bright  days  of 
June 

Its  leaves  grew  green  and  fair, 
And  waved  in  hot  midsummer's  noon 

Its  soft  and  yellow  hair. 

And  now,  with  autumn's  moonlit  eves, 
Its  harvest-time  has  come, 

We  pluck  away  the  frosted  leaves, 
And  bear  the  treasure  home. 

There,  richer  than  the  fabled  gift 

Apollo  showered  of  old, 
Fair  hands  the  broken  grain  shall  sift, 

And  knead  its  meal  of  gold. 

Let  vapid  idlers  loll  in  silk 
Around  their  costly  board  ; 

Give  us  the  bowl  of  samp  and  milk, 
By  homespun  beauty  poured! 


Where'er  the  wide  old  kitchen  hearth 

Sends  up  its  smoky  curls, 
Who  will  not  thank  the  kindly  earth, 

And  bless  our  farmer  girls! 

Then  shame  on  all  the  proud  and  vain, 
Whose  folly  laughs  to  scorn 

The  blessing  of  our  hardy  grain, 
Our  wealth  of  golden  corn ! 

Let  earth  withhold  her  goodly  root, 
Let  mildew  blight  the  rye, 

Give  to  the  worm  the  orchard's  fruit, 
The  wheat-field  to  the  fly : 

But  let  the  good  old  crop  adorn 
The  hills  our  fathers  trod  ; 

Still  let  us,  for  his  golden  corn, 
Send  up  our  thanks  to  God! 


THE   LUMBERMEN. 

WILDLY  round  our  woodland  quarters, 

Sad-voiced  Autumn  grieves ; 
Thickly  down  these  swelling  waters 

Float  his  fallen  leaves. 
Through  the  tall  and  naked  timber, 

Column-like  and  old, 
Gleam  the  sunsets  of  November, 

From  their  skies  of  gold. 

O'er  us,  to  the  southland  heading, 

Screams  the  gray  wild-goose  ; 
On  the  night-frost  sounds  the  treading 

Of  the  brindled  moose.    . 
Noiseless  creeping,  while  we  're  sleep- 
ing? 

Frost  his  task-work  plies  ; 
Soon,  his  icy  bridges  heaping, 

Shall  our  log-piles  rise. 

When,  with  sounds  of  smothered  thun- 
der, 

On  some  night  of  rain, 
Lake  and  river  break  asunder 

Winter's  weakened  chain, 
Down  the  wild  March  flood  shall  bear 

them 
To  the  saw-mill's  wheel, 


SONGS   OF   LABOR  AND   OTHER   POEMS. 


Or  where  Steam,  the  slave,  shall  tear 

them 
With  his  teeth  of  steel. 

Be  it  starlight,  be  it  moonlight, 

In  these  vales  below, 
When  the  earliest  beams  of  sunlight 

Streak  the  mountain's  snow, 
Crisps  the  hoar-frost,  keen  and  early, 

To  our  hurrying  feet, 
And  the  forest  echoes  clearly 

All  our  blows  repeat. 

Where  the  crystal  Ambijejis 

Stretches  broad  and  clear, 
And  Millnoket's  pine-black  ridges 

Hide  the  browsing  deer : 
Where,  through  lakes  and  wide  mo- 
rasses, 

Or  through  rocky  walls, 
Swift  and  strong,  Penobscot  passes 

White  with  foamy  foils  ; 

Where,  through  clouds,  are  glimpses 
given 

Of  Katahdin's  sides,  — 
Rock  and  forest  piled  to  heaven, 

Torn  and  ploughed  by  slides! 
Far  below,  the  Indian  trapping, 

In  the  sunshine  warm  ; 
Far  above,  the  snow-cloud  wrapping 

Half  the  peak  in  storm! 

Where  are  mossy  carpets  better 

Than  the  Persian  weaves, 
And  than  Eastern  perfumes  sweeter 

Seem  the  fading  leaves  ; 
And  a  music  wild  and  solemn, 

From  the  pine-tree's  height, 
Rolls  its  vast  and  sea-like  volume 

On  the  wind  of  night ; 

Make  we  here  our  camp  of  winter ; 

And,  through  sleet  and  snow, 
Pitchy  knot  and  beechen  splinter 

On  our  hearth  shall  glow. 
Here,  with  mirth  to  lighten  duty, 

We  shall  lack  alone 
Woman's  smile  and  girlhood's  beauty, 

Childhood's  lisping  tone. 


But  their  hearth  is  brighter  burning 

For  our  toil  to-day  ; 
And  the  welcome  of  returning 

Shall  our  loss  repay, 
When,  like  seamen  from  the  waters, 

From  the  woods  we  come, 
Greeting  sisters,  wives,  and  daughters, 

Angels  of  our  home ! 


Not  for  us  the  measured  ringing 

From  the  village  spire, 
Not  for  us  the  Sabbath  singing 

Of  the  sweet-voiced  choir  : 
Ours  the  old,  majestic  temple, 

Where  God's  brightness  shines 
Down  the  dome  so  grand  and  ample, 

Propped  by  lofty  pines ! 

Through  each  branch-enwoven  sky- 
light, 

Speaks  He  in  the  breeze, 
As  of  old  beneath  the  twilight 

Of  lost  Eden's  trees ! 
For  his  ear,  the  inward  feeling 

Needs  no  outward  tongue  ; 
He  can  see  the  spirit  kneeling 

While  the  axe  is  swung. 


Heeding  truth  alone,  and  turning 

From  the  false  and  dim, 
Lamp  of  toil  or  altar  burning 

Are  alike  to  Him. 

Strike,   then,   comrades  !  —  Trade   is 
waiting 

On  our  rugged  toil ; 
Far  ships  waiting  for  the  freighting 

Of  our  woodland  spoil! 


Ships,  whose  traffic  links  these  high- 
lands, 

Bleak  and  cold,  of  ours, 
With  the  citron-planted  islands 

Of  a  clime  of  flowers  ; 
To  our  frosts  the  tribute  bringing 

Of  eternal  heats  ; 
In  our  lap  of  winter  flinging 

Tropic  fruits  and  sweets. 


THE  ANGELS   OF  BUENA   VISTA. 


Cheerly,  on  the  axe  of  labor, 

Let  the  sunbeams  dance, 
Better  than  the  flash  of  sabre 

Or  the  gleam  of  lance! 
Strike !  —  With  every  blow  is  given 

Freer  sun  and  sky, 
And  the  long-hid  earth  to  heaven 

Looks,  with  wondering  eye ! 

Loud  behind  us  grow  the  murmurs 

Of  the  age  to  come  ; 
Clang  of  smiths,  and  tread  of  farmers, 

Bearing  harvest  home! 
Here  her  virgin  lap  with  treasures 

Shall  the  green  earth  fill ; 
Waving  wheat  and  golden  maize-ears 

Crown  each  beechen  hill. 

Keep  who  will  the  city's  alleys, 
Take  the  smooth-shorn  plain, — 

Give  to  us  the  cedar  valleys, 
Rocks  and  hills  of  Maine! 


In  our  North-land,  wild  and  woody, 

Let  us  still  have  part : 
Rugged  nurse  and  mother  sturdy, 

Hold  us  to  thy  heart! 

O,  our  free  hearts  beat  the  warmer 

For  thy  breath  of  snow  ; 
And  our  tread  is  all  the  firmer 

For  thy  rocks  below. 
Freedom,  hand  in  hand  with  labor, 

Walketh  strong  and  brave  ; 
On  the  forehead  of  his  neighbor 

No  man  writeth  Slave! 

Lo,  the  day  breaks !  old  Katahdin's 

Pine-trees  show  its  fires, 
While  from  these  dim  forest  gardens 

Rise  their  blackened  spires. 
Up,  my  comrades!  up  and  doing! 

Manhood's  rugged  play 
Still  renewing,  bravely  hewing 

Through  the  world  our  way! 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE   ANGELS    OF   BUENA   VISTA. 

SPEAK  and  tell  us,  our  Ximena,  looking  northward  far  away, 
O'er  the  camp  of  the  invaders,  o'er  the  Mexican  array,  . 
Who  is  losing?  who  is  winning?  are  they  far  or  come  they  near? 
Look  abroad,  and  tell  us,  sister,  whither  rolls  the  storm  we  hear. 


"Down  the  hills  of  Angostura  still  the  storm  of  battle  rolls  ; 
Blood  is  flowing,  men  are  dying;  God  have  mercy  on  their  souls!" 
Who  is  losing?  who  is  winning?  —  "  Over  hill  and  over  plain, 
I  see  but  smoke  of  cannon  clouding  through  the  mountain  rain." 

Holy  Mother!  keep  our  brothers!     Look,  Ximena,  look  once  more. 

"  Still  I  see  the  fearful  whirlwind  rolling  darkly  as  before, 

Bearing  on,  in  strange  confusion,  friend  and  foeman,  foot  and  horse, 

Like  some  wild  and  troubled  torrent  sweeping  down  its  mountain  course." 

Look  forth  once  more,  Ximena!     "  Ah !  the  smoke  has  rolled  away  ; 
And  I  see  the  Northern  rifles  gleaming  down  the  ranks  of  gray. 
Hark!  that  sudden  blast  of  bugles!  there  the  troop  of  Minon  wheels  ; 
There  the  Northern  horses  thunder,  with  the  cannon  at  their  heels. 


152  MISCELLANEOUS. 


"Jesu,  pity!  how  it  thickens!  now  retreat  and  now  advance! 

Right  against  the  blazing  cannon  shivers  Puebla's  charging  lance! 

Down  they  go,  the  brave  young  riders  ;  horse  and  foot  together  fall ; 

Like  a  ploughshare  in  the  fallow,  through  them  ploughs  the  Northern  ball." 

Nearer  came  the  storm  and  nearer,  rolling  fast  and  frightful  on : 
Speak,  Ximena,  speak  and  tell  us,  who  has  lost,  and  who  has  won? 
"  Alas!  alas!  I  know  not ;  friend  and  foe  together  fall, 
O'er  the  dying  rush  the  living:  pray,  my  sisters,  for  them  all! 

"  Lo !  the  wind  the  smoke  is  lifting :  Blessed  Mother,  save  my  brain ! 
I  can  see  the  wounded  crawling  slowly  out  from  heaps  of  slain. 
Now  they  stagger,  blind  and  bleeding ;  now  they  fall,  and  strive  to  rise ; 
Hasten,  sisters,  haste  and  save  them,  lest  they  die  before  our  eyes ! 

"  O  my  heart's  love !  O  my  dear  one !  lay  thy  poor  head  on  my  knee  : 
Dost  thou  know  the  lips  that  kiss  thee?   Canst  thou  hear  me?  canst  thou  see? 
O  my  husband,  brave  and  gentle!     O  my  Bernal,  look  once  more 
On  the  blessed  cross  before  thee!     Mercy!  mercy!  all  is  o'er!" 

Dry  thy  tears,  my  poor  Ximena ;  lay  thy  dear  one  down  to  rest ; 
Let  his  hands  be  meekly  folded,  lay  the  cross  upon  his  breast ; 
Let  his  dirge  be  sung  hereafter,  and  his  funeral  masses  said : 
To-day,  thou  poor  bereaved  one,  the  living  ask  thy  aid. 

Close  beside  her,  faintly  moaning,  fair  and  young,  a  soldier  lay, 
Torn  with  shot  and  pierced  with  lances,  bleeding  slow  his  life  away ; 
But,  as  tenderly  before  him,  the  lorn  Ximena  knelt, 
She  saw  the  Northern  eagle  shining  on  his  pistol-belt. 

With  a  stifled  cry  of  horror  straight  she  turned  away  her  head ; 

With  a  sad  and  bitter  feeling  looked  she  back  upon  her  dead ; 

But  she  heard  the  youth's  low  moaning,  and  his  struggling  breath  of  pain, 

And  she  raised  the  cooling  water  to  his  parching  lips  again. 

Whispered  low  the  dying  soldier,  pressed  her  hand  and  faintly  smiled : 
Was  that  pitying  face  his  mother's?  did  she  watch  beside  her  child? 
All  his  stranger  words  with  meaning  her  woman's  heart  supplied ; 
With  her  kiss  upon  his  forehead,  " Mother!  "  murmured  he,  and  died! 

"  A  bitter  curse  upon  them,  poor  boy,  who  led  thee  forth, 
From  some  gentle,  sad-eyed  mother,  weeping,  lonely,  in  the  North!" 
Spake  the  mournful  Mexic  woman,  as  she  laid  him  with  her  dead, 
And  turned  to  soothe  the  living,  and  bind  the  wounds  which  bled. 

Look  forth  once  more,  Ximena!     "  Like  a  cloud  before  the  wind 
Rolls  the  battle  down  the  mountains,  leaving  blood  and  death  behind ; 
Ah!  they  plead  in  vain  for  mercy ;  in  the  dust  the  wounded  strive ; 
Hide  your  faces,  holy  angels!  oh  thou  Christ  of  God,  forgive!" 


BARCLAY   OF   URY. 


153 


Sink,  O  Night,  among  thy  mountains!  let  the  cool,  gray  shadows  fall; 
Dying  brothers,  fighting  demons,  drop  thy  curtain  over  all! 
Through  the  thickening  winter  twilight,  wide  apart  the  battle  rolled, 
In  its  sheath  the  sabre  rested,  and  the  cannon's  lips  grew  cold. 


But  the  noble  Mexic  women  still  their  holy  task  pursued, 

Through  that  long,  dark  night  of  sorrow,  worn  and  faint  and  lacking  food ; 

Over  weak  and  suffering  brothers,  with  a  tender  care  they  hung, 

And  the  dying  foeman  blessed  them  in  a  strange  and  Northern  tongue. 

Not  wholly  lost,  O  Father!  is  this  evil  world  of  ours'; 
Upward,  through  it  blood  and  ashes,  spring  afresh  the  Eden  flowers ; 
From  its  smoking  hell  of  battle,  Love  and  Pity  send  their  prayer, 
And  still  thy  white-winged  angels  hover  dimly  in  our  air! 


FORGIVENESS. 

MY  heart  was  heavy,  for  its  trust  had 

been 
Abused,  its  kindness  answered  with 

foul  wrong ; 

So,  turning  gloomily  from  my  fellow- 
men, 
One  summer  Sabbath  day  I  strolled 

among 

The  green  mounds  of  the  village  bur- 
ial-place ; 
Where,  pondering  how  all  human 

love  and  hate 
Find  one  sad  level ;  and  how,  soon 

or  late, 
Wronged  and  wrongdoer,   each  with 

meekened  face, 
And  cold  hands  folded  over  a  still 

heart, 

Pass  the  green  threshold  of  our  com- 
mon grave, 
Whither  all  footsteps  tend,  whence 

none  depart, 
Awed   for    myself,   and    pitying    my 

race, 
Our   common   sorrow,  like  a  mighty 

wave, 

Swept  all  my  pride  away,  and  trem- 
bling I  forgave ! 


BARCLAY  OF  URY. 

UP  the  streets  of  Aberdeen, 
By  the  kirk  and  college  green, 

Rode  the  Laird  of  Ury ; 
Close  behind  him,  close  beside, 
Foul  of  mouth  and  evil-eyed, 

Pressed  the  mob  in  fury. 

Flouted  him  the  drunken  churl, 
Jeered  at  him  the  serving-girl, 

Prompt  to  please  her  master ; 
And  the  begging  carlin,  late 
Fed  and  clothed  at  Ury's  gate, 

Cursed  him  as  he  passed  her. 

Yet,  with  calm  and  stately  mien, 
Up  the  streets  of  Aberdeen 

Came  he  slowly  riding  ; 
And,  to  all  he  saw  and  heard, 
Answering  not  with  bitter  word, 

Turning  not  for  chiding. 

Came    a    troop     with     broadswords 

swinging, 

Bits  and  bridles  sharply  ringing, 
Loose  and  free  and  frovvard  ; 
Quoth     the     foremost,    "  Ride     him 

down! 


154 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Push  him !    prick  him !    through  the 

town 
Drive  the  Quaker  coward!" 

But  from  out  the  thickening  crowd 
Cried  a  sudden  voice  and  loud  : 

"Barclay!  Ho!  a  Barclay!" 
And  the  old  man  at  his  side 
Saw  a  comrade,  battle  tried, 

Scarred  and  sun-burned  darkly  ; 

Who  with  ready  weapon  bare, 
Fronting  to  the  troopers  there, 

Cried  aloud  :   "  God  save  us, 
Call  ye  coward  him  who  stood 
Ankle  deep  in  Lutzen's  blood, 

With  the  brave  Gustavus  ? " 

"  Nay,  I  do  not  need  thy  sword, 
Comrade  mine,"  said  Ury's  lord  ; 

"  Put  it  up,  I  pray  thee  : 
Passive  to  his  holy  will,' 
Trust  I  in  my  Master  still, 

Even  though  he  slay  me. 

"  Pledges  of  thy  love  and  faith, 
Proved  on  many  a  field  of  death, 

Not  by  me  are  needed." 
Marvelled  much  that  henchman  bold, 
That  his  laird,  so  stout  of  old, 

Now  so  meekly  pleaded. 

"  Woe  's  the  day !  "  he  sadly  said, 
With  a  slowly-shaking  head, 

And  a  look  of  pity  ; 
u  Ury's  honest  lord  reviled, 
Mock  of  knave  and  sport  of  child, 

In  his  own  good  city! 

"  Speak  the  word,  and,  master  mine, 
As  we  charged  on  Tilly's  line, 

And  his  Walloon  lancers, 
Smiting    through    their    midst   we  '11 

teach 
Civil  look  and  decent  speech 

To  these  boyish  prancers!" 

"  Marvel  not,  mine  ancient  friend, 
Like  beginning,  like  the  end  "  : 
Quoth  the  Laird  of  Ury, 


"  Is  the  sinful  servant  more 
Than  his  gracious  Lord  who  bore 
Bonds  and  stripes  in  Jewry  ? 

"  Give  me  joy  that  in  his  name 
I  can  bear,  with  patient  frame, 

All  these  vain  ones  offer ; 
While  for  them  He  suffereth  long, 
Shall  I  answer  wrong  with  wrong, 

Scoffing  with  the  scoffer? 

"  Happier  I,  with  loss  of  all, 
Hunted,  outlawed,  held  in  thrall, 

With  few  friends  to  greet  me, 
Than   when   reeve   and   squire   were 

seen, 
Riding  out  from  Aberdeen, 

With  bared  heads  to  meet  me. 

"  When  each  goodwife,  o'er  and  o'er, 
Blessed  me  as  I  passed  her  door  ; 

And  the  snooded  daughter, 
Through     her     casement     glancing 

down, 
Smiled  on  him  who  bore  renown 

From  red  fields  of  slaughter. 

"  Hard  to  feel  the  stranger's  scoff, 
Hard  the  old  friend's  falling  off, 

Hard  to  learn  forgiving  : 
But  the  Lord  his  own  rewards, 
And  his  lt>ve  with  theirs  accords, 

Warm  and  fresh  and  living. 

"Through    this    dark     and     stormy 

night 
Faith  beholds  a  feeble  light 

Up  the  blackness  streaking  ; 
Knowing  God's  own  time  is  best, 
In  a  patient  hope  I  rest 

For  the  full  day-breaking !  " 

So  the  Laird  of  Ury  said, 
Turning  slow  his  horse's  head 

Towards  the  Tolbooth  prison, 
Where,  through  iron  grates,  he  heard 
Poor  disciples  of  the  Word 

Preach  of  Christ  arisen ! 


WHAT  THE   VOICE   SAID. 


155 


Not  in  vain,  Confessor  old, 
Unto  us  the  tale  is  told 

Of  thy  day  of  trial ; 
Every  age  on  him,  who  strays 
From  its  broad  and  beaten  ways, 

Pours  its  sevenfold  vial. 

Happy  he  whose  inward  ear 
Angel  comfortings  can  hear, 

O'er  the  rabble's  laughter ; 
And,  while  Hatred's  fagots  burn, 
Glimpses  through  the  smoke  discern 

Of  the  good  hereafter. 

Knowing  this,  that  never  yet 
Share  of  Truth  was  vainly  set 

In  the  world's  wide  fallow  ; 
After  hands  shall  sow  the  seed, 
After  hands  from  hill  and  mead 

Reap  the  harvests  yellow. 

Thus,  with  somewhat  of  the  Seer, 
Must  the  moral  pioneer 

From  the  Future  borrow  ; 
Clothe    the    waste    with    dreams    of 

grain, 
And,  on  midnight's  sky  of  rain, 

Paint  the  golden  morrow! 


WHAT    THE  VOICE    SAID. 

MADDENED   by  Earth's   wrong    and 

evil, 

"  Lord!  "  I  cried  in  sudden  ire, 
"  From  thy  right  hand,  clothed  with 

thunder, 
Shake  the  bolted  fire ! 

"  Love  is  lost,  and  Faith  is  dying ; 

With  the  brute  the  man  is  sold  ; 
And  the  dropping  blood  of  labor 

Hardens  into  gold. 

"  Here  the  dying  wail  of  Famine, 
There  the  battle's  groan  of  pain  ; 

And,  in  silence,  smooth-face  Mammon 
Reaping  men  like  grain. — 


"  <  Where  is  God,  that  we  should  fear 
Him?' 

Thus  the  earth-born  Titans  say ; 
'  God !  if  thou  art  living,  hear  us ! ' 

Thus  the  weak  ones  pray." 

"  Thou,  the  patient  Heaven  upbraid- 
ing," 

Spake  a  solemn  Voice  within  ; 
"  WTeary  of  our  Lord's  forbearance, 

Art  thou  free  from  sin? 

"  Fearless  brow  to  Him  uplifting, 
Canst  thou  for  his  thunders  call? 

Knowing  that  to  guilt's  attraction 
Evermore  they  fall  ? 

"  Know'st  thou  not  all  germs  of  evil 
In  thy  heart  await  their  time? 

Not  thyself,  but  God's  restraining, 
Stays  their  growth  of  crime. 

"  Couldst  thou  boast,  O  child  of  weak- 
ness ! 

O'er  the  sons  of  wrong  and  strife, 
Were  their  strong  temptations  planted 

In  thy  path  of  life? 

"  Thou  hast  seen  two  streamlets  gush- 
ing 

From  one  fountain,  clear  and  free, 
But  by  widely  varying  channels 

Searching  for  the  sea. 

"Glideth  one  through  greenest  valleys, 
Kissing  them  with  lips  still  sweet ; 

One,  mad  roaring  down  the  mountains, 
Stagnates  at  their  feet. 

"  Is  it  choice  whereby  the  Parsee 
Kneels  before  his  mother's  fire? 

In  his  black  tent  did  the  Tartar 
Choose  his  wandering  sire? 

"  He  alone,  whose  hand  is  bounding 
Human  power  and  human  will, 

Looking  through  each  soul's  surround- 
ing. 
Knows  its  good  or  ill. 


I56 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


"  For  thyself,  while  wrong  and  sorrow 
Make  to  thee  their  strong  appeal, 

Coward  wert  thou  not  to  utter 
What  the  heart  must  feel. 

"  Earnest  words  must  needs  be  spoken 
When  the  warm    heart   bleeds   or 
burns 

With  its  scorn  of  wrong,  or  pity 
For  the  wronged,  by  turns. 

"  But,  by  all  thy  nature's  weakness, 
Hidden  faults  and  follies  known, 

Be  thou,  in  rebuking  evil, 
Conscious  of  thine  own. 

"  Not  the  less  shall  stern-eyed  Duty 
To  thy  lips  her  trumpet  set, 

But  with  harsher  blasts  shall  mingle 
Wailings  of  regret." 

Cease  not,  Voice  of  holy  speaking, 
Teacher  sent  of  God,  be  near, 

Whispering  through  the   day's    cool 

silence, 
Let  my  spirit  hear! 

So,  when  thoughts  of  evil-doers 
Waken  scorn,  or  hatred  move, 

Shall  a  mournful  fellow-feeling 
Temper  all  with  love. 


TO  DELAWARE. 

[Written  during  the  discussion  in  the 
Legislature  of  that  State,  in  the  winter 
of  "1846-47,  of  a  bill  for  the  abolition  of 
slavery.] 

THRICE  welcome  to  thy  sisters  of  the 

East, 
To  the  strong  tillers  of  a  rugged 

home, 
With    spray-wet  locks   to    Northern 

winds  released, 
And  hardy  feet  o'erswept  by  ocean's 

foam  ; 
And  to  the  young  nymphs  of  the  golden 

West, 


Whose  harvest  mantles,  fringed  with 

prairie  bloom, 
Trail   in   the  sunset,  —  O  redeemed 

and  blest, 
To  the  warm  welcome  of  thy  sisters 

come ! 

Broad   Pennsylvania,  down  her  sail- 
white  bay 
Shall  give  thee  joy,  and  Jersey  from 

her  plains, 
And  the  great  lakes,  where  echo,  free 

alway, 
Moaned  never  shoreward  with  the 

clank  of  chains, 
Shall  weave  new  sun-bows   in  their 

tossing  spray, 

And  all  their  waves  keep  grateful  holi- 
day. 
And,   smiling   on   thee  through    her 

mountain  rains, 
Vermont  shall  bless  thee ;  and  the 

Granite  peaks. 
And   vast  Katahdin  o'er  his  woods, 

shall  wear 
Their  snow-crowns   brighter  in  the 

cold  keen  air ; 
And  Massachusetts,  with  her  rugged 

cheeks 
O'errun  with  grateful  tears,  shall  turn 

to  thee, 
When,  at  thy  bidding,  the  electric 

wire 
Shall   tremble   northward  with   its 

words  of  fire ; 

Glory   and   praise   to   God!   another 
State  is  free ! 


WORSHIP. 

"  Pure  religion,  and  undefiled,  before 
God  and  the  Father  is  this :  To  visit  the 
widows  and  the  fatherless  in  their  affliction, 
and  to  keep  himself  unspotted  from  the 
world."  —  James  i.  27. 

THE  Pagan's  myths  through  marble 

lips  are  spoken, 

And  ghosts  of  old  Beliefs  still  flit 
and  moan 


WORSHIP. 


Round  fane  and  altar  overthrown  and 

broken, 

O'er   tree-grown  barrow  and   gray 
ring  of  stone. 

Blind  Faith  had  martyrs  in  those  old 

high  places, 
The  Syrian  hill  grove  and  the  Druid's 

wood, 
With  mother's  offering,  to  the  Fiend's 

embraces, 

Bone  of  their  bone,  and  blood  of 
their  own  blood. 

Red  altars,  kindling  through  that  night 

of  error, 
Smoked  with  warm  blood  beneath  the 

cruel  eye 
Of    lawless    Power    and    sanguinary 

Terror, 
Throned  on  the  circle  of  a  pitiless 

sky; 

Beneath  whose  baleful  shadow,  over- 
casting 
All   heaven   above,   and    blighting 

earth  below, 
The  scourge  grew  red,  the  lip  grew 

pale  with  fasting, 

And  man's  oblation  was  his  fear  and 
woe! 

Then  through  great  temples  swelled 

the  dismal  moaning 
Of  dirge-like  music  and  sepulchral 

prayer ; 
Pale  wizard  priests,  o'er  occult  symbols 

droning, 

Swung  their  white  censers  in  the 
burdened  air : 

As  if  the  pomp  of  rituals,  and  the 

savor 

Of  gums  and  spices  could  the  Un- 
seen One  please ; 
As  if  his  ear  could  bend,  with  childish 

favor, 

To  the  poor  flattery  of  the  organ 
keys ! 


Feet    red   from  war-fields    trod    the 

church  aisles  holy, 
With  trembling  reverence  :  and  the 

oppressor  there, 
Kneeling  before  his  priest,  abased  and 

lowly, 

Crushed  human  hearts  beneath  his 
knee  of  prayer. 

Not   such  the  service  the  benignant 

Father 
Requireth  at  his  earthly  children's 

hands : 
Not  the  poor  offering  of  vain  rites,  but 

rather 

The   simple  duty  man   from   man 
demands. 

For  Earth  he  asks  it :  the  full  joy  of 

Heaven 
Knoweth  no  change  of  waning  or 

increase ; 
The  great  heart  of  the  Infinite  beats 

even, 

Untroubled   flows  the  river  of  his 
peace. 

He  asks  no  taper  lights,  on  high  sur- 
rounding 
The  priestly  altar  and  the  saintly 

grave, 
No  dolorous  chant  nor  organ  music 

sounding, 

Nor  incense  clouding  up  the  twi- 
light nave. 

For  he  whom  Jesus  loved  hath  truly 

spoken : 
The  holier  worship  which  he  deigns 

to  bless 
Restores  the  lost,  and  binds  the  spirit 

broken, 

And  feeds  the  widow  and  the  father- 
less! 

Types   of  our  human  weakness  and 

our  sorrow ! 

Who  lives  unhaunted  by  his  loved 
ones  dead? 


I58 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Who,  with  vain  longing,  seeketh  not 

to  borrow 

From  stranger  eyes  the  home  lights 
which  have  fled? 

O  brother  man !  fold  to  thy  heart  thy 

brother; 
Where   pity   dwells,    the   peace  of 

God  is  there ; 
To   worship   rightly  is   to  love  each 

other, 

Each    smile   a   hymn,  each  kindly 
deed  a  prayer. 

Follow  with  reverent  steps  the  great 

example 
Of    Him    whose    holy    work    was 

"doing  good  " ; 
So   shall   the   wide   earth    seem    our 

Father's  temple, 

Each  loving  life  a  psalm  of  grati- 
tude. 

Then    shall    all    shackles    fall;    the 

stormy  clangor 
Of  wild  war   music  o'er  the  earth 

shall  cease ; 
Love  shall  tread  out  the  baleful  fire  of 

anger, 

And  in  its  ashes  plant  the  tree  of 
peace ! 


THE  DEMON  OF   THE  STUDY. 

THE  Brownie  sits  in  the  Scotchman's 

room, 
And  eats  his  meat  and  drinks  his 

ale, 
And  beats  the  maid  with  her  unused 

broom, 

And  the  lazy  lout  with  his  idle  flail, 
But  he  sweeps  the  floor  and  threshes 

the  corn, 
And  hies  him  away  ere  the  break  of 

dawn. 

The  shade  of  Denmark  fled  from  the 


And  the  Cocklane  ghost  from  the 

barnloft  cheer, 
The   fiend   of  Faust  was   a   faithful 


Agrippa's  demon  wrought  in  fear, 
And  the  devil  of  Martin  Luther  sat 
By  the  stout  monk's   side  in  social 
chat. 

The  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  on  the  neck 

of  him 

Who  seven  times  crossed  the  deep, 
Twined  closely  each  lean  and  with- 
ered limb, 

Like  the  nightmare  in  one's  sleep. 
But  he  drank  of  the  wine,  and  Sin- 
bad  cast 
The  evil  weight  from  his  back  at  last. 

But  the  demon  that  cometh   day  by 

day 

To  my  quiet  room  and  fireside  nook, 
Where  the  casement  light  falls  dim 

and  gray 

On  faded  painting  and  ancient  book, 
Is  a  sorrier  one  than  any  whose  names 
Are   chronicled   well    by  good   King 
James. 

No  bearer  of  burdens  like  Caliban, 
No  runner  of  errands  like  Ariel, 
He  comes  in  the  shape  of  a  fat  old 

man, 
Without  rap  of  knuckle  or  pull  of 

bell; 
And  whence  he  comes,  or  whither  he 

goes, 
I  know  as    I  do  of  the  wind  which 

blows. 

A  stout  old  man  with  a  greasy  hat 
Slouched  heavily  down  to  his  dark, 

red  nose, 

And  two  gray  eyes  enveloped  in  fat. 
Looking  through  glasses  with  iron 

bows. 
Read   ye,  and  heed  ye,  and  ye  who 

can, 
Guard  well  your  doors  from  that  old 

man ! 


THE  DEMON  OF  THE   STUDY. 


159 


He  comes  with  a  careless  "  How  d'  ye 

do?" 

And   seats  himself  in   my   elbow- 
chair  ; 

And  my  morning  paper  and  pamphlet 

new 

Fall    forthwith    under    his    special 
care, 

And  he  wipes  his  glasses  and  clears 
his  throat, 

And,  button   by  button,  unfolds   his 
coat. 

And   then   he  reads  from  paper  and 

book, 

In  a  low  and  husky  asthmatic  tone, 
With  the  stolid  sameness  of  posture 

and  look 

Of  one  who  reads  to  himself  alone  ; 
And   hour   after   hour  on  my  senses 

come 
That  husky  wheeze  and  that  dolorous 

hum. 

The    price    of   stocks,    the    auction 

sales, 
The   poet's   song   and    the   lover's 

glee, 
The  horrible  murders,  the   seaboard 

gales, 
The  marriage  list,  and  thejeu  d"*e- 

sprit, 
All   reach   my   ear  in    the    selfsame 

tone,  — 
I  shudder  at  each,  but  the  fiend  reads 

on! 

O,  sweet  as   the  lapse   of  water  at 

noon 
O'er  the  mossy  roots  of  some  forest 

tree, 
The  sigh  of  the  wind  in  the  woods  of 

June, 
Or  sound  of  flutes  o'er  a  moonlight 

sea, 
Or  the  low  soft    music,   perchance, 

which  seems 
To     float    through    the    slumbering 

singer's  dreams, 


So  sweet,  so  dear  is  the  silvery  tone, 
Of  her  in  whose    features  I  some- 
times look, 

As  I  sit  at  eve  by  her  side  alone, 
And    we   read  by   turns   from  the 

selfsame  book, — 

Some  tale  perhaps  of  the  olden  time, 
Some  lover's  romance  or  quaint  old 
rhyme. 

Then  when  the  story  is  one  of  woe, — 
Some  prisoner's  plaint  through  his 

dungeon-bar, 
Her  blue  eye  glistens  with  tears,  and 

low 
Her  voice  sinks  down  like  a  moan 

afar ; 
And   I  seem  to  hear  that  prisoner's 

wail, 
And  his  face  looks  on  me  worn  and 

pale. 

And  when   she  reads  some  merrier 

song, 

Her  voice  is  glad  as  an  April  bird's, 
And   when   the   tale   is    of  war   and 

wrong, 
A   trumpet's    summons    is    in    her 

words, 
And  the  rush  of  the  hosts  I  seem  to 

hear, 
And   see   the   tossing  of  plume  and 

spear ! — 

O,  pity  me  then,  when,  day  by  day, 
The  stout  fiend  darkens  my  parlor 

door; 
And  reads  me  perchance  the  selfsame 

lay 
Which  melted  in  music,  the  night 

before, 

From  lips  as  the  lips  of  Hylas  sweet, 
And   moved    like    twin    roses    which 

zephyrs  meet! 

I  cross  my  floor  with  a  nervous  tread, 
I  whistle  and  laugh  and  sing  and 
shout, 

I  flourish  my  cane  above  his  head, 
And  stir  up  the  fire  to  roast  him  out ; 


i6o 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


I  topple  the  chairs,  and  drum  on  the 

pane, 
And  press  my  hands  on  my  ears,  in 

vain! 

I  Ve  studied  Glanville  and  James  the 

wise, 
And  wizard  black-letter  tomes  which 

treat 

Of  demons  of  every  name  and  size, 
Which  a  Christian  man  is  presumed 

to  meet, 

But  never  a  hint  and  never  a  line 
Can  I  find  of  a  reading  fiend  like  mine. 

IVe  crossed  the  Psalter  with  Brady 

and  Tate, 

And  laid  the  Primer  above  them  all, 
I  Ve  nailed  a  horseshoe  over  the  grate, 
And  hung  a  wig  to  my  parlor  wall 
Once  worn  by  a  learned  Judge,  they 

say, 
At  Salem  court  in  the  witchcraft  day! 

"  Conjuro  te,  sceleratissime, 

Abire  ad  titum  locum !  "  —  still 
Like  a  visible  nightmare  he  sits  by 

me, — 

The  exorcism  has  lost  its  skill ; 
And  I  hear  again  in  my  haunted  room 
The  husky  wheeze  and  the  dolorous 
hum ! 

Ah ! — commend  me  to  Mary  Magdalen 
With   her  sevenfold  plagues,  —  to 

the  wandering  Jew, 
To  the  terrors  which  haunted  Orestes 

when 
The  furies    his    midnight   curtains 

drew, 
But  charm  him  off,  ye  who  charm  him 

can, 
That   reading    demon,    that    fat    old 

man! 


THE   PUMPKIN. 

O,  GREENLY  and  fair  in  the  lands  of 

the  sun, 
The  vines  of  the  gourd  and  the  rich 

melon  run, 


And  the  rock  and  the  tree  and  the 

cottage  enfold, 
With  broad  leaves  all  greenness  and 

blossoms  all  gold, 
Like  that  which  o?er  Nineveh's  prophet 

once  grew, 
While  he  waited   to  know  that   his 

warning  was  true, 
And  longed  for  the  storm-cloud,  and 

listened  in  vain 
For  the  rush  of  the  whirlwind  and  red 

fire-rain. 

On  the  banks  of  the  Xenil  the  dark 

Spanish  maiden 
Comes  up  with  the  fruit  of  the  tangled 

vine  laden ; 
And  the  Creole  of  Cuba  laughs  out  to 

behold 
Through   orange-leaves   shining  the 

broad  spheres  of  gold ; 
Yet  with  dearer  delight  from  his  home 

in  the  North, 
On  the  fields  of  his  harvest  the  Yankee 

looks  forth, 
Where  crook-necks  are  coiling  and 

yellow  fruit  shines, 
And  the  sun  of  September  melts  down 

on  his  vines. 

Ah !  on  Thanksgiving  day,  when  from 
East  and  from  West, 

From  North  and  from  South  come  the 
pilgrim  and  guest, 

When  the  gray-haired  New-Englander 
sees  round  his  board 

The  old  broken  links  of  affection  re- 
stored, 

\Vhen  the  care-wearied  man  seeks  his 
mother  once  more, 

And  the  worn  matron  smiles  where 
the  girl  smiled  before, 

What  moistens  the  lip  and  what  bright- 
ens the  eye? 

What  calls  back  the  past,  like  the  rich 
Pumpkin  pie  ? 

O,  —  fruit  loved  of  boyhood !  —  the  old 
days  recalling, 


EXTRACT  FROM  "A  NEW  ENGLAND  LEGEND.' 


161 


When  wood-grapes  were  purpling  and 
brown  nuts  were  falling! 

When  wild,  ugly  faces  we  carved  in 
its  skin, 

Glaring  out  through  the  dark  with  a 
candle  within ! 

When  we  laughed  round  the  corn- 
heap,  with  hearts  all  in  tune, 

Our  chair  a  broad  pumpkin,  —  our  lan- 
tern the  moon, 

Telling  tales  of  the  fairy  who  travelled 
like  steam, 

In  a  pumpkin-shell  coach,  with  two 
rats  for  her  team ! 

Then  thanks  for  thy  present!  —  none 
sweeter  or  better 

E'er  smoked  from  an  oven  or  circled 
a  platter ! 

Fairer  hands  never  wrought  at  a  pastry 
more  fine, 

Brighter  eyes  never  watched  o'er  its 
baking,  than  thine! 

And  the  prayer,  which  my  mouth  is 
too  full  to  express, 

Swells  my  heart  that  thy  shadow  may 
never  be  less, 

That  the  days  of  thy  lot  may  be  length- 
ened below, 

And  the  fame  of  thy  worth  like  a  pump- 
kin-vine grow, 

And  thy  life  be  as  sweet,  and  its  last 
sunset  sky 

Golden-tinted  and  fair  as  thy  own 
Pumpkin  pie ! 


EXTRACT   FROM  "A   NEW 
ENGLAND  LEGEND." 

How  has  New  England's  romance  fled, 

Even  as  a  vision  of  the  morning! 
Its    rights    foredone,  —  its   guardians 

dead,  — 
Its  priestesses,  bereft  of  dread, 

Waking  the  veriest  urchin's  scorn- 
ing! 

Gone  like  the  Indian  wizard's  yell 
And   fire-dance    round   the    magic 
rock, 


Forgotten  like  the  Druid's  spell 
At  moonrise  by  his  holy  oak ! 
No  more  along  the  shadowy  glen, 
Glide  the  dim  ghosts  of  murdered  men  ; 
No  more  the  unquiet  churchyard  dead 
Glimpse  upward  from  their  turfy  bed, 
Startling  the  traveller,  late  and  lone ; 
As,  on  some  night  of  starless  weather, 
They  silently  commune  together, 

Each  sitting  on  his  own  head-stone! 
The  roofless  house,  decayed,  deserted, 
Its  living  tenants  all  departed, 
No  longer  rings  with  midnight  revel 
Of  witch,  or  ghost,  or  goblin  evil ; 
No  pale  blue  flame  sends  out  its  flashes 
Through  creviced  roof  and  shattered 

sashes! — 

The  witch-grass  round  the  hazel  spring 
May  sharply  to  the  night-air  sing, 
But  there  no  more  shall  withered  hags 
Refresh  at  ease  their  broomstick  nags, 
Or  taste  those  hazel-shadowed  waters 
As  beverage  meet  for  Satan's  daugh- 
ters; 

No  more  their  mimic  tones  be  heard, — 
The  mew  of  cat,  —  the  chirp  of  bird,  — 
Shrill  bending  with  the  hoarser  laugh- 
ter 

Of  the  fell  demon  following  after! 
The  cautious  goodman  nails  no  more 
A  horseshoe  on  his  outer  door, 
Lest  some  unseemly  hag  should  fit 
To  his  own  mouth  her  bridle-bit,  — 
The  goodwife's  churn  no  more  refuses 
Its  wonted  culinary  uses 
Until,  with  heated  needle  burned, 
The  witch  has  to  her  place  returned! 
Our  witches  are  no  longer  old 
'  And  wrinkled  beldames,  Satan-sold, 
But  young  and  gay  and  laughing  crea- 
tures, 
With  the  heart's  sunshine  on  their 

features,  — 

Their  sorcery — the  light  which  dances 
Where    the    raised    lid    unveils    its 

glances ; 

Or  that  low-breathed  and  gentle  tone, 
The  music  of  Love's  twilight  hours, 
Soft,  dreamlike,  as  a  fairy's  moan 
Above  her  nightly  closing  flowers, 


162 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Sweeter  than  that  which  sighed  of 

yore, 

Along  the  charmed  Ausonian  shore ! 
Even  she,  our  own  weird  heroine, 
Sole  Pythoness  of  ancient  Lynn, 
Sleeps  calmly  where  the  living  laid 

her; 

And  the  wide  realm  of  sorcery, 
Left  by  its  latest  mistress  free, 

Hath  found  no  gray  and  skilled  in- 
vader : 

So  perished  Albion's  "  glammarye," 
With  him  in  Melrose  Abbey  sleep- 
ing, 

His  charmed  torch  beside  his  knee, 
That  even  the   dead  himself  might 

see 

The  magic  scroll  within  his  keep- 
ing, 

And  now  our  modern  Yankee  sees 
Nor  omens,  spells,  nor  mysteries  ; 
And  naught  above,  below,  around, 
Of  life  or  death,  of  sight  or  sound, 

Whatever  its  nature,  form,  or  look, 
Excites  his  terror  or  surprise,  — 
All  seeming  to  his  knowing  eyes 
Familiar  as  his  u  catechize," 
Or  "  Webster's  Spelling-Book.11 


HAMPTON    BEACH. 

THE    sunlight    glitters    keen    and 

bright,  ^ 

Where,  miles  away, 
Lies  stretching  to  my  dazzled  sight 
A  luminous  belt,  a  misty  light, 
Beyond  the  dark  pine  bluffs  and  wastes 
of  sandy  gray. 

The  tremulous  shadow  of  the  Sea! 

Against  its  ground 
Of  silvery  light,  rock,  hill,  and  tree, 
Still  as  a  picture,  clear  and  free, 
With  varying  outline  mark  the  coast 
for  miles  around. 

On — on — we  tread  with  loose-flung 

rein 
Our  seaward  way, 


Through  dark-green  fields  and  blos- 
soming grain, 

Where  the  wild  brier-rose  skirts  the 

lane, 

And  bends  above  our  heads  the  flow- 
ering locust  spray. 

Ha!  like  a  kind  hand  on  my  brow 

Comes  this  fresh  breeze, 
Cooling  its  dull  and  feverish  glow. 
While  through  my  being  seems  to 

flow 

The  breath  of  a  new  life,  —  the  heal- 
ing of  the  seas ! 

Now    rest   we,    where   this   grassy 

mound 

His  feet  hath  set 
In   the   great   waters,  which   have 

bound 

His  granite  ankles  greenly  round 

With  long  and  tangled  moss,  and  weeds 

with  cool  spray  wet. 

Good  by  to  pain  and  care !  I  take 

Mine  ease  to-day : 
Here    where    these    sunny    waters 

break, 

And  ripples  this  keen  breeze,  I  shake 
All  burdens  from  the  heart,  all  weary 
thoughts  away. 

I  draw  a  freer  breath  —  I  seem 

Like  all  I  see  — 
Waves  in  the  sun — the  white-winged 

gleam 

Of  sea-birds  in  the  slanting  beam  — 
And  far-off  sails  which  flit  before  the 
south-wind  free. 

So    when    Time's    veil    shall    fall 

asunder, 

The  soul  may  know 
No    fearful    change,    nor     sudden 

wonder, 
Nor   sink   the   weight   of   mystery 

under, 

But  with  the  upward  rise,  and  with  the 
vastness  grow. 


LINES. 


163 


And  all  we  shrink  from  now  may 

seem 

No  new  revealing ; 
Familiar  as  our  childhood's  stream, 
Or  pleasant  memory  of  a  dream 
The  loved  and  cherished  Past  upon 
the  new  life  stealing. 

Serene  and  mild  the  untried  light 

May  have  its  dawning ; 
And,    as    in     summer's     northern 

night 

The  evening  and  the  dawn  unite, 
The  sunset  hues  of  Time  blend  with 
the  souPs  new  morning. 

I  sit  alone  ;  in  foam  and  spray 

Wave  after  wave 
Breaks  on  the  rocks  which,  stern 

and  gray, 

Shoulder  the  broken  tide  away, 
Or  murmurs  hoarse  and  strong  through 
mossy  cleft  and  cave. 

What  heed  I  of  the  dusty  land 

And  noisy  town? 
I  see  the  mighty  deep  expand 
From  its  white  line  of  glimmering 

sand 

To  where  the  blue  of  heaven  on  bluer 
waves  shuts  down! 

In  listless  quietude  of  mind, 

I  yield  to  all 
The  change  of  cloud  and  wave  and 

wind, 

And  passive  on  the  flood  reclined, 
I  wander  with   the  waves,  and  with 
them  rise  and  fall. 

But  look,  thou  dreamer!  —  wave  and 

shore 

In  shadow  lie ; 
The  night-wind  warns  me  back  once 

more 

To  where,  my  native  hill-tops  o'er, 
Bends  like  an  arch  of  fire  the  glowing 
sunset  sky. 


So  then,  beach,  bluff,  and  wave,  fare- 
well! 

I  bear  with  me 

No  token  stone  nor  glittering  shell, 
But  long  and  oft  shall  Memory  tell 
Of  this  brief  thoughtful  hour  of  mus- 
ing by  the  Sea. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  ON  HEARING  OF  THE  DEATH 
OF   SILAS  WRIGHT   OF   NEW  YORK. 

As  they  who,  tossing  midst  the  storm 

at  night, 
While  turning  shoreward,  where  a 

beacon  shone, 
Meet  the  walled  blackness  of  the 

heaven  alone, 
So,  on  the  turbulent  waves  of  party 

tossed, 
In  gloom  and  tempest,  men  have  seen 

thy  light 
Quenched  in  the  darkness.    At  thy 

hour  of  noon, 
While  life  was  pleasant  to   thy  un- 

dimmed  sight, 
And,  day  by  day,  within   thy  spirit 

grew 
A  holier  hope  than  young  Ambition 

knew, 
As  through    thy  rural   quiet,  not   in 

vain, 
Pierced  the  sharp  thrill  of  Freedom's 

cry  of  pain, 
Man  of  the  millions,  thou  art  lost 

too  soon ! 
Portents  at  which  the  bravest  stand 

aghast,  — 
The  birth-throes  of  a  Future,  strange 

and  vast, 
Alarm  the  land ;  yet  thou,  so  wise 

and  strong, 

Suddenly  summoned  to  the  burial  bed, 
Lapped  in  its  slumbers  deep  and  ever 

long, 

Hear'st  not  the  tumult  surging  over- 
head. 


164 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Who  now  shall  rally  Freedom's  scat- 
tering host? 
Who  wear  the  mantle  of  the  leader 

lost? 
Who  stay  the  march  of  slavery?     He 

whose  voice 
Hath  called  thee  from  thy  task-field 

shall  not  lack 
Yet     bolder    champions,    to    beat 

bravely  back 
The  wrong  which,  through  his  poor 

ones,  reaches  Him  : 
Yet    firmer    hands    shall    Freedom's 

torchlights  trim, 
And  wave   them   high    across    the 

abysmal  black, 
Till  bound,  dumb  millions  there  shall 

see  them  and  rejoice. 
loth  mo.,  1847. 


LINES, 

ACCOMPANYING     MANUSCRIPTS     PRE- 
SENTED  TO   A    FRIEND. 

'T  is  said  that  in  the  Holy  Land 
The  angels  of  the  place  have  blessed 

The  pilgrim's  bed  of  desert  sand, 
Like  Jacob's  stone  of  rest. 

That  down  the  hush  of  Syrian  skies 
Some  sweet- voiced  saint  at  twilight 
sings 

The  song  whose  holy  symphonies 
Are  beat  by  unseen  wings ; 

Till  starting  from  his  sandy  bed,% 
The  wayworn  wanderer    looks   to 
see 

The  halo  of  an  angel's  head 

Shine  through  the  tamarisk-tree. 

So  through  the  shadows  of  my  way 
Thy    smile    hath    fallen    soft    and 
clear, 

So  at  the  weary  close  of  day 
Hath  seemed  thy  voice  of  cheer. 


That  pilgrim  pressing  to  his  goal 
May  pause  not  for  the  vision's  sake, 

Yet  all  fair  things  within  his  soul 
The  thought  of  it  shall  wake  ; 

The  graceful  palm-tree  by  the  well, 
Seen  on  the  far  horizon's  rim ; 

The  dark  eyes  of  the  fleet  gazelle, 
Bent  timidly  on  him  ; 

Each   pictured   saint,   whose   golden 

hair 

Streams  sunlike  through  the  con- 
vent's gloom  ; 

Pale  shrines  of  martyrs  young  and  fair, 
And  loving  Mary's  tomb  ; 

And  thus  each  tint  or  shade  which 
falls, 

From  sunset  cloud  or  waving  tree, 
Along  my  pilgrim  path,  recalls 

The  pleasant  thought  of  thee. 

Of  one  in  sun  and  shade  the  same, 
In  weal  and  woe  my  steady  friend, 

Whatever  by  that  holy  name 
The  angels  comprehend. 

Not  blind  to  faults  and  follies,  thou 
Hast  never  failed  the  good  to  see, 

Nor  judged  by  one  unseemly  bough 
The  upward-struggling  tree. 

These  light  leaves  at  thy  feet  I  lay,  — 
Poor  common  thoughts  on  common 
things, 

Which  time  is  shaking,  day  by  day, 
Like  feathers  from  his  wings,  — 

Chance  shootings  from  a  frail  life-tree, 
To  nurturing  care  but  little  known, 

Their  good  was  partly  learned  of  thee 
Their  folly  is  my  own. 

That  tree  still  clasps  the  kindly  mould, 
Its  leaves  still  drink  the  twilight 
dew, 

And  weaving  its  pale  green  with  gold, 
Still  shines  the  sunlight  through. 


RAPHAEL. 


165 


There  still  the  morning  zephyrs  play, 
And  there  at  times  the  spring  bird 
sings, 

And  mossy  trunk  and  fading  spray 
Are  flowered  with  glossy  wings. 

Yet,  even  in  genial  sun  and  rain, 
Root,  branch,  and  leaflet   fail  and 
fade; 

The  wanderer  on  its  lonely  plain 
Erelong  shall  miss  its  shade. 

O  friend  beloved,  whose  curious  skill 
Keeps  bright  the  last  year's  leaves 

and  flowers, 
With  warm,  glad  summer   thoughts 

to  fill 
The  cold,  dark,  winter  hours! 

Pressed   on   thy  heart,  the   leaves    I 
bring 

May  well  defy  the  wintry  cold*, 
Until,  in  Heaven's  eternal  spring, 

Life's  fairer  ones  unfold. 


THE   REWARD. 

WHO,    looking    backward    from    his 
manhood's  prime. 

Sees  not  the  spectre  of  his  misspent 

time? 
And,  through  the  shade 

Of  funeral  cypress  planted  thick  be- 
hind, 

Hears  no  reproachful  whisper  on  the 

wind 
From  his  loved  dead? 

Who  bears  no  trace  of  passion's  evil 
force  ? 

Who  shuns  thy  sting,  O  terrible  Re- 
morse ?  — 
Who  does  not  cast 

On  the  thronged  pages  of  his  mem- 
,ory's  book, 

At   times,   a   sad   and    half-reluctant 

look, 
Regretful  of  the  Past? 


Alas !  —  the  evil  which  we  fain  would 

shun 
We  do,  and  leave  the  wished-for  good 

undone : 

Our  strength  to-day 
Is  but   to-morrow's  weakness,  prone 

to  fall ; 

Poor,  blind,  unprofitable  servants  all 
Are  we  alway. 

Yet  who,  thus  looking  backward  o'er 

his  years, 

Feels  not  his  eyelids  wet  with  grate- 
ful tears, 
If  he  hath  been 

Permitted,  weak  and  sinful  as  he  was, 
To  cheer  and  aid,  in  some  ennobling 

cause, 
His  fellow-men? 

If  he  hath  hidden  the  outcast,  or  let  in 
A  ray  of  sunshine  to  the  cell  of  sin,  — 

If  he  hath  lent 
Strength  to  the  weak,  and,  in  an  hour 

of  need, 
Over   the  suffering,  mindless    of  his 

creed 
Or  home,  hath  bent, 

He  has  not  lived  in  vain,  and  while 

he  gives 
The  praise  to  Him,  in  whom  he  moves 

and  lives. 

With  thankful  heart ; 
He  gazes   backward,  and  with   hope 

before, 
Knowing   that    from    his   works    he 

nevermore 
Can  henceforth  part. 


RAPHAEL. 

I  SHALL  not  soon  forget  that  sight : 
The   glow   of   autumn's   westering 
day, 

A  hazy  warmth,  a  dreamy  light, 
On  Raphael's  picture  lay. 

It  was  a  simple  print  I  saw, 
The  fair  face  of  a  musing  boy ; 


1 66 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Yet,  while  I  gazed,  a  sense  of  awe 
Seemed  blending  with  my  joy. 

A  simple  print :  —  the  graceful  flow 
Of  boyhood's  soft  and  wavy  hair, 

And  fresh  young  lip  and  cheek,  and 

brow 
Unmarked  and  clear,  were  there. 

Yet  through  its  sweet  and  calm  repose 
I  saw  the  inward  spirit  shine ; 

It  was  as  if  before  me  rose 
The  white  veil  of  a  shrine. 

As  if,  as  Gothland's  sage  has  told, 
The  hidden  life,  the  man  within, 

Dissevered  from  its  frame  and  mould, 
By  mortal  eye  were  seen. 

Was  it  the  lifting  of  that  eye, 

The  waving  of  that  pictured  hand  ? 

Loose  as  a  cloud-wreath  on  the  sky, 
I  saw  the  walls  expand. 

The  narrow  room  had   vanished,  — 

space, 

Broad,  luminous,  remained  alone, 
Through  which  all  hues  and  shapes 

of  grace 
And  beauty  looked  or  shone. 

Around  the  mighty  master  came 
The     marvels    which     his     pencil 
wrought, 

Those  miracles  of  power  whose  fame 
Is  wide  as  human  thought. 

There  drooped  thy  more  than  mortal 
face, 

O  Mother,  beautiful  and  mild ! 
Enfolding  in  one  dear  embrace 

Thy  Saviour  and  thy  Child ! 

The  rapt  brow  of  the  Desert  John ; 

The  awful  glory  of  that  day 
When   all    the    Father's    brightness 
shone 

Through  manhood's  veil  of  clay. 


And,  midst  gray  prophet  forms,  and 
wild 

Dark  visions  of  the  days  of  old, 
How  sweetly  woman's  beauty  smiled 

Through  locks  of  brown  and  gold! 

There  Fornarina's  fair  young  face 
Once  more  upon  her  lover  shone, 

Whose  model  of  an  angel's  grace 
He  borrowed  from  her  own. 

Slow  passed  that  vision  from  my 
view, 

But  not  the  lesson  which  it  taught ; 
The  soft,  calm  shadows  which  it  threw 

Still  rested  on  my  thought : 

The   truth,    that   painter,    bard,   and 

sage, 

Even  in  Earth's  cold  and  change- 
ful clime, 

Plant  for  their  deathless  heritage 
The  fruits  and  flowers  of  time. 

We  shape  ourselves  the  joy  or  fear 
Of  which  the  coming  life  is  made, 

And  fill  our  Future's  atmosphere 
With  sunshine  or  with  shade. 

The  tissue  of  the  Life  to  be 

We  weave  with  colors  all  our  own, 

And  in  the  field  of  Destiny 
We  reap  as  we  have  sown. 

Still  shall  the  soul  around  it  call 
The   shadows  which    it    gathered 
here, 

And,  painted  on  the  eternal  wall, 
The  Past  shall  reappear. 

Think  ye  the  notes  of  holy  song 
On  Milton's  tuneful  ear  have  died? 

Think  ye  that  Raphael's  angel  throng 
Has  vanished  from  his  side? 

O  no!  —  WTe  live  our  life  again  : 
Or  warmly  touched,  or  coldly  dim, 

The  pictures  of  the  Past  remain,— 
Man's  works  shall  follow  him! 


LUCY   HOOPER. 


167 


LUCY   HOOPER. 

THEY  tell  me,  Lucy,  thou  art  dead, — 
That  all  of  thee  we  loved  and 

cherished 

Has  with  thy  summer  roses  per- 
ished : 

And  left,  as  its  young  beauty  fled, 
An  ashen  memory  in  its  stead,  — 
The  twilight  of  a  parted  day 

Whose  fading  light  is  cold   and 

vain  ; 

The  heart's  faint  echo  of  a  strain 
Of  low,  sweet  music  passed  away. 
That  true  and  loving  heart,  —  that  gift 
Of  a  mind,  earnest,  clear,  profound, 
Bestowing,  with  a  glad  unthrift, 
Its  sunny  light  on  all  around, 
Affinities  which  only  could 
Cleave  to  the  pure,  the  true,  and  good  ; 
And  sympathies  which  found  no  rest, 
Save  with  the  loveliest  and  best. 
Of  them  —  of  thee  —  remains    there 

naught 
But      sorrow     in     the     mourner's 

breast  ? — 

A  shadow  in  the  land  of  thought? 
No!  —  Even  my  weak  and  trembling 

faith 

Can  lift  for  thee  the  veil  which  doubt 
And  human  fear  have  drawn  about 
The  all-awaiting  scene  of  death. 

Even  as  thou  wast  I  see  thee  still ; 
And,  save  the  absence  of  all  ill 
And  pain  and  Weariness,  which  here 
Summoned  the  sigh  or  wrung  the  tear, 
The  same  as  when,  two  summers  back, 
Beside  our  childhood's  Merrimack, 
1  saw  thy  dark  eye  wander  o'er 
Stream,  sunny  upland,  rocky  shore, 
And  heard  thy  low,  soft  voice  alone 
Midst  lapse  of  waters,  and  the  tone 
Of  pine-leaves  by  the  west-wind  blown, 
There 's  not  a  charm  of  soul  or  brow, — 

Of  all  we  knew  and  loved  in  thee,  — 
But  lives  in  holier  beauty  now, 

Baptized  in  immortality! 
Not  mine  the  sad  and  freezing  dream 


Of  souls   that,  with   their   earthly 
mould, 

Cast  off  the  loves  and  joys  of  old,  — 
Unbodied, —  like  a  pale  moonbeam, 

As  pure,  as  passionless,  and  cold ; 
Nor  mine  the  hope  of  Indra's  son, 

Of  slumbering  in  oblivion's  rest, 
Life's  myriads  blending  into  one, — 

In  blank  annihilation  blest ; 
Dust-atoms  of  the  infinite,  — 
Sparks  scattered  from  the  central  light, 
And    winning   back   through   mortal 

pain 

Their  old  unconsciousness  again. 
No!  —  I     have    FRIENDS    in    Spirit 

Land,— 
Not  shadows  in  a  shadowy  band, 

Not  others,  but  themselves  are  they. 
And  still  I  think  of  them  the  same 
As  when  the  Master's  summons  came ; 
Their  change,  —  the  holy  morn-light 

breaking 

Upon  the  dream-worn  sleeper,  wak- 
ing*— 

A  change  from  twilight  into  day. 

They  've  laid  thee  midst  the  household 
graves, 

Where  father,  brother,  sister  lie ; 
Below  thee  sweep  the  dark  blue  waves, 

Above  thee  bends  the  summer  sky. 
Thy  own  loved  church  in  sadness  read 
Her  solemn  ritual  o'er  thy  head, 
And  blessed  and  hallowed  with  her 

prayer 

The  turf  laid  lightly  o'er  thee  there. 
That  church,  whose  rites  and  liturgy, 
Sublime  and  old,  were  truth  to  thee, 
Undoubted  to  thy  bosom  taken, 
As  symbols  of  a  faith  unshaken. 
Even  I,  of  simpler  views,  could  feel 
The  beauty  of  thy  trust  and  zeal  ; 
And,  owning  not  thy  creed,  could  see 
How  deep  a  truth  it  seemed  to  thee, 
And  how  thy  fervent  heart  had  thrown 
O'er  all,  a  coloring  of  its  own, 
And  kindled  up,  intense  and  warm, 
A  life  in  every  rite  and  form, 
As,  when  on  Chebar's  banks  of  old, 
The  Hebrew's  gorgeous  vision  rolled, 


1 68 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


A  spirit  filled  the  vast  machine,  — 
A  life  "  within  the  wheels  "  was  seen. 

Farewell!     A  little  time,  and  we 
Who  knew  thee  well,  and  loved  thee 

here, 
One  after  one  shall  follow  thee 

As  pilgrims  through  the  gate  of  fear, 
Which  opens  on  eternity. 
Yet  shall  we  cherish  not  the  less 

All  that  is  left  our  hearts  meanwhile  ; 
The  memory  of  thy  loveliness 

Shall   round    our    weary    pathway 

smile, 
Like   moonlight   when    the   sun   has 

set,— 

A  sweet  and  tender  radiance  yet. 
Thoughts  of  thy  clear-eyed  sense  of 

duty, 
Thy   generous  scorn  of  all  things 

wrong,  — 
The  truth,  the  strength,  the  graceful 

beauty 

Which  blended  in  thy  song. 
All  lovely  things,  by  thee  beloved, 

Shall  whisper  to  our  hearts  of  thee  ; 
These  green   hills,  where  thy  child- 
hood roved, — 

Yon  river  winding  to  the  sea, — 
The  sunset  light  of  autumn  eves 

Reflecting  on  the  deep,  still  floods, 
Cloud,    crimson   sky,   and   trembling 

leaves 

Of  rainbow-tinted  woods,  — 
These,  in  our  view,  shall  henceforth 

take 

A  tenderer  meaning  for  thy  sake ; 
And  all  thou  lovedst  of  earth  and  sky, 
Seem  sacred  to  thy  memory. 


CHANNING. 

NOT  vainly  did  old  poets  tell, 
Nor  vainly  did  old  genius  paint 

God's  great  and  crowning  miracle, — 
The  hero  and  the  saint ! 

For  even  in  a  faithless  day 

Can  we  our  sainted  ones  discern  ; 


And  feel,  while  with  them  on  the  way, 
Our  hearts  within  us  burn. 

And  thus  the  common  tongue  and  pen 
Which,    world-wide,   echo    CHAN- 
NING'S  fame, 

As  one  of  Heaven's  anointed  men, 
Have  sanctified  his  name. 

In  vain  shall  Rome  her  portals  bar, 
And  shut  from  him  her  saintly  prize, 

Whom,  in  the  world's  great  calendar, 
All  men  shall  canonize. 

By  Narragansett's  sunny  bay, 

Beneath    his     green     embowering 
wood, 

To  me  it  seems  but  yesterday  ' 
Since  at  his  side  I  stood. 

The   slopes  lay  green  with  summer 

rains, 
The  western  wind  blew  fresh  and 

free, 
And    glimmered    down   the    orchard 

lanes 
The  white  surf  of  the  sea. 

With  us  was  one,  who,  calm  and  true, 
Life's  highest  purpose  understood, 

And,  like  his  blessed  Master,  knew 
The  joy  of  doing  good. 

Unlearned,  unknown  to  lettered  fame, 
Yet  on  the  lips  of  England's  poor 

And  toiling  millions  dwelt  his  name, 
With  blessings  evermore. 

Unknown  to  power  or  place,  yet  where 
The  sun  looks  o'er  the  Carib  sea, 

It  blended  with  the  freeman's  prayer 
And  song  of  jubilee. 

He  told  of  England's  sin  and  wrong,  — 
The    ills    her    suffering    children 
know,  — 

The  squalor  of  the  city's  throng, — 
The  green  field's  want  and  woe. 


TO  THE   MEMORY  OF  CHARLES  B.    STORRS. 


169 


O'er  Channing's  face  the  tenderness 
Of  sympathetic  sorrow  stole, 

Like  a  still  shadow,  passionless, — 
The  sorrow  of  the  soul. 

But  when  the  generous  Briton  told 
How  hearts  were  answering  to  his 
own, 

And  Freedom's  rising  murmur  rolled 
Up  to  the  dull-eared  throne, 

I  saw,  meth ought,  a  glad  surprise 
Thrill  through  that  frail  and  pain- 
worn  frame, 
And,   kindling   in  those   deep,  calm 

eyes, 
A  still  and  earnest  flame. 

His  few,  brief  words  were  such  as  move 
The  human  heart,  —  the  Faith-sown 
seeds 

Which  ripen  in  the  soil  of  love 
To  high  heroic  deeds. 

No  bars  of  sect  or  clime  were  felt,  — 
The    Babel   strife   of  tongues  had 
ceased, — 

And  at  one  common  altar  knelt 
The  Quaker  and  the  priest. 

And   not  in  vain :   with  strength  re- 
newed, 
And  zeal  refreshed,  and  hope  less 

dim. 

For  that  brief  meeting,  each  pursued 
The  path  allotted  him. 

How  echoes  yet  each  Western  hill 
And   vale   with    Channing's  dying 
word ! 

How  are  the  hearts  of  freemen  still 
By  that  great  warning  stirred ! 

The  stranger  treads  his  native  soil, 
And  pleads,  with  zeal  unfelt  before 

The  honest  right  of  British  toil, 
The  claim  of  England's  poor. 

Before  him  time-wrought  barriers  fall, 
Old  fears  subside,  old  hatreds  melt, 


And,   stretching   o'er  the  sea's  blue 

wall, 
The  Saxon  greets  the  Celt. 

The  yeoman  on  the  Scottish  lines, 
The    Sheffield   grinder,  worn    and 
grim, 

The  delver  in  the  Cornwall  mines, 
Look  up  with  hope  to  him. 

Swart  smiters  of  the  glowing  steel, 
Dark  feeders  of  the  forge's  flame, 

Pale  watchers  at  the  loom  and  wheel, 
Repeat  his  honored  name. 

And  thus  the  influence  of  that  hour 
Of  converse    on    Rhode    Island's 
strand, 

Lives  in  the  calm,  resistless  power 
Which  moves  our  father-land. 

God  blesses  still  the  generous  thought, 
And  still  the  fitting  word  He  speeds, 

And  Truth,  at  his  requiring  taught, 
He  quickens  into  deeds. 

Where  is  the  victory  of  the  grave? 

What  dust  upon  the  spirit  lies  ? 
God  keeps  the  sacred  life  he  gave,  — 

The  prophet  never  dies! 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  CHARLES 
B.    STORRS, 

LATE    PRESIDENT    OF    WESTERN    RE- 
SERVE   COLLEGE. 

THOU  hast  fallen  in  thine  armor, 

Thou  martyr  of  the  Lord! 
With  thy  last  breath  crying,  —  "  On- 
ward ! " 

And  thy  hand  upon  the  sword. 
The  haughty  heart  derideth, 

And  the  sinful  lip  reviles, 
But  the  blessing  of  the  perishing 

Around  thy  pillow  smiles ! 

When  to  our  cup  of  trembling, 
The  added  drop  is  given, 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


And  the  long-suspended  thunder 
Falls  terribly  from  Heaven, — 

When  a  new  and  fearful  freedom 
Is  proffered  of  the  Lord 

To  the  slow-consuming  Famine, — 
The  Pestilence  and  Sword!  — 

When  the  refuges  of  Falsehood 

Shall  be  swept  away  in  wrath, 
And  the  temple  shall  be  shaken, 

With  its  idol,  to  the  earth,  — 
Shall  not  thy  words  of  warning 

Be  all  remembered  then? 
And  thy  now  unheeded  message 

Burn  in  the  hearts  of  men  ? 

Oppression's  hand  may  scatter 

Its  nettles  on  thy  tomb, 
And  even  Christian  bosoms 

Deny  thy  memory  room  ; 
For  lying  lips  shall  torture 

Thy  mercy  into  crime, 
And  the  slanderer  shall  flourish 

As  the  bay-tree  for  a  time. 

But  where  the  south-wind  lingers 

On  Carolina's  pines, 
Or  falls  the  careless  sunbeam 

Down  Georgia's  golden  mines,  — 
Where  now  beneath  his  burthen 

The  toiling  slave  is  driven,  — 
Where  now  a  tyrant's  mockery 

Is  offered  unto  Heaven,  — 

Where  Mammon  hath  its  altars 

Wet  o'er  with  human  blood, 
And  pride  and  lust  debases 

The  workmanship  of  God, — 
There  shall  thy  praise  be  spoken, 

Redeemed  from  Falsehood's  ban, 
When  the  fetters  shall  be  broken, 

And  the  slave  shall  be  a  man  I 

Joy  to  thy  spirit,  brother! 

A  thousand  hearts  are  warm, — 
A  thousand  kindred  bosoms 

Are  baring  to  the  storm. 
What  though  red-handed  Violence 

With  secret  Fraud  combine? 


The  wall  of  fire  is  round  us, — 
Our  Present  Help  was  thine. 

Lo, —  the  waking  up  of  nations, 

From  Slavery's  fatal  sleep,  — 
The  murmur  of  a  Universe, — 

Deep  calling  unto  Deep! 
Joy  to  thy  spirit,  brother! 

On  every  wind  of  heaven 
The  onward  cheer  and  summons 

Of  FREEDOM'S  VOICE  is  given! 

Glory  to  God  forever ! 

Beyond  the  despot's  will 
The  soul  of  Freedom  liveth 

Imperishable  still. 
The  words  which  thou  hast  uttered 

Are  of  that  soul  a  part, 
And  the  good  seed  thou  hast  scattered 

Is  springing  from  the  heart. 

In  the  evil  days  before  us, 

And  the  trials  yet  to  come, — 
In  the  shadow  of  the  prison, 

Or  the  cruel  martyrdom,  — 
We  will  think  of  thee,  O  brother! 

And  thy  sainted  name  shall  be 
In  the  blessing  of  the  captive, 

And  the  anthem  of  the  free. 
1834. 

LINES, 

ON   THE   DEATH   OF    S.    O.    TORREY. 

GONE  before  us,  O  our  brother, 

To  the  spirit-land! 
Vainly  look  we  for  another 

In  thy  place  to  stand. 
Who  shall  offer  youth  and  beauty 

On  the  wasting  shrine 
Of  a  stern  and  lofty  duty, 

With  a  faith  like  thine? 

O,  thy  gentle  smile  of  greeting 

Who  again  shall  see? 
Who  amidst  the  solemn  meeting 

Gaze  again  on  thee?  — 


A   LAMENT. 


171 


Who,  when  peril  gathers  o'er  us, 

Wear  so  calm  a  brow  ? 
Who,  with  evil  men  before  us, 

So  serene  as  thou? 

Early  hath  the  spoiler  found  thee, 

Brother  of  our  love! 
Autumn's  faded  earth  around  thee, 

And  its  storms  above ! 
Evermore  that  turf  lie  lightly, 

And,  with  future  showers, 
O'er  thy  slumbers  fresh  and  brightly 

Blow  the  summer  flowers! 

In  the  locks  thy  forehead  gracing, 

Not  a  silvery  streak  ; 
Nor  a  line  of  sorrow's  tracing 

On  thy  fair  young  cheek  ; 
Eyes  of  light  and  lips  of  roses, 

'Such  as  Hylas  wore,  — 
Over  all  that  curtain  closes, 

Which  shall  rise  no  more! 

Will  the  vigil  Love  is  keeping 

Round  that  grave  of  thine, 
Mournfully,  like  Jazer  weeping 

Over  Sibmah's  vine, — 
Will  the  pleasant  memories,  swelling 

Gentle  hearts,  of  thee, 
In  the  spirit's  distant  dwelling 

All  unheeded  be? 

If  the  spirit  ever  gazes, 

From  its  journeyings,  back  ; 
If  the  immortal  ever  traces 

O'er  its  mortal  track  ; 
Wilt  thou  not,  O  brother,  meet  us 

Sometimes  on  our  way, 
And,  in  hours  of  sadness,  greet  us 

As  a  spirit  may? 

Peace  be  with  thee,  O  our  brother, 

In  the  spirit-land! 
Vainly  look  we  for  another 

In  thy  place  to  stand. 
Unto  Truth  and  Freedom  giving 

All  thy  early  powers, 
Be  thy  virtues  with  the  living, 

And  thy  spirit  ours ! 


A  LAMENT. 

"  The  parted  spirit, 
Knoweth   it   not   our   sorrow?     Answereth 

not 
Its  blessing  to  our  tears?  " 

THE  circle  is  broken,  —  one  seat  is 
forsaken,  — 

One  bud  from  the  tree  of  our  friend- 
ship is  shaken, — 

One  heart  from  among  us  no  longer 
shall  thrill 

With  joy  in  our  gladness,  or  grief  in 
our  ill. 

Weep !  —  lonely  and  lowly  are  slum- 
bering now 

The  light  of  her  glances,  the  pride  of 
her  brow, 

Weep !  —  sadly  and  long  shall  we  listen 
in  vain 

To  hear  the  soft  tones  of  her  welcome 
again. 

Give  our  tears  to' the  dead!  For  hu- 
manity's claim 

From  its  silence  and  darkness  is  ever 
the  same ; 

The  hope  of  that  World  whose  exist- 
ence is  bliss 

May  not  stifle  the  tears  of  the  mourn- 
ers of  this. 

For,  oh !  if  one  glance  the  freed  spirit 
can  throw 

On  the  scene  of  its  troubled  proba- 
tion below, 

Than  the  pride  of  the  marble,  the 
pomp  of  the  dead, 

To  that  glance  will  be  dearer  the  tears 
which  we  shed. 

O,  who  can  forget  the  mild  light  of 
her  smile, 

Over  lips  moved  with  music  and  feel- 
ing the  while  — 

The  eye's  deep  enchantment,  dark, 
dream-like,  and  clear, 


172 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


In  the  glow  of  its  gladness,  the  shade 
of  its  tear. 

And  the  charm  of  her  features,  while 

over  the  whole 
Played  the  hues  of  the  heart  and  the 

sunshine  of  soul,  — 
And  the  tones  of  her  voice,  like  the 

music  which  seems 
Murmured  low   in  our   ears   by   the 

Angel  of  dreams ! 

But  holier  and  dearer  our  memories 
hold 

Those  treasures  of  feeling,  more  pre- 
cious than  gold,  — 

The  love  and  the  kindness  and  pity 
which  gave 

Fresh  flowers  for  the  bridal,  green 
wreaths  for  the  grave ! 

The    heart    ever    open   to   Charity's 

claim, 
Unmoved  from  its  purpose  by  censure 

and  blame, 
While  vainly  alike  on  her  eye  and  her 

ear 
Fell  the  scorn  of  the  heartless,  the 

jesting  and  jeer. 

How  true  to  our  hearts  was  that  beau- 
tiful sleeper ! 

With  smiles  for  the  joyful,  with  tears 
for  the  weeper!  — 

Yet,  evermore  prompt,  whether  mourn- 
ful or  gay, 

With  warnings  in  love  to  the  passing 
astray. 

For,  though  spotless  herself,  she  could 
sorrow  for  them 

Who  sullied  with  evil  the  spirit's  pure 
gem; 

And  a  sigh  or  a  tear  could  the  erring 
reprove. 

And  the  sting  of  reproof  was  still  tem- 
pered by  love. 

As  a  cloud  of  the  sunset,  slow  melting 
in  heaven, 


As  a  star  that  is  lost  when  the  day- 
light is  given, 

As  a  glad  dream  of  slumber,  which 
wakens  in  bliss, 

She  hath  passed  to  the  world  of  the 
holy  from  this. 


DANIEL  WHEELER. 

[DANIEL  WHEELER,  a  minister  of  the 
Society  of  Friends,  and  who  had  labored 
in  the  cause  of  his  Divine  Master  in  Great 
Britain,  Russia,  and  the  islands  of  the  Pa- 
cific, died  in  New  York  in  the  spring  of 
1840,  while  on  a  religious  visit  to  this  coun- 
try.] 

O  DEARLY  loved ! 

And  worthy  of  our  love!  —  No  more 
Thy  aged  form  shall  rise  before 
The  hushed  and  waiting  worshipper, 
In  meek  obedience  utterance  giving 
To  words  of  truth,  so  fresh  and  living, 
That,  even  to  the  inward  sense, 
They  bore  unquestioned  evidence 
Of  an  anointed  Messenger! 
Or,  bowing  down  thy  silver  hair 
In  reverent  awfulness  of  prayer, — 

The  world,  its  time  and  sense,  shut 

out, — 

The  brightness  of  Faith's  holy  trance 
Gathered  upon  thy  countenance, 

As    if    each     lingering    cloud    of 

doubt,  — 

The  cold,  dark  shadows  resting  here 
In  Time's  unluminous  atmosphere,— 

Were  lifted  by  an  angel's  hand, 
And  through  them  on  thy  spiritual  eye 
Shone  down  the  blessedness  on  high, 

The  glory  of  the  Better  Land! 

The  oak  has  fallen ! 

While,  meet  for  no  good  work,  the  vine 

May  yet  its  worthless  branches  twine. 

Who  knoweth  not  that  with  thee  fell 

A  great  man  in  our  Israel? 

Fallen,  while  thy  loins  were  girded  still, 
Thy  feet  with  Zion's  dews  stili  wet, 
And  in  thy  hand  retaining  yet 

The  pilgrim's  staff  and  scallop-shell! 


DANIEL  WHEELER. 


173 


Unharmed  and  safe,  where,  wild  and 
free, 

Across  the  Neva's  cold  morass 
The  breezes  from  the  Frozen  Sea 

With  winter's  arrowy  keenness  pass  ; 
Or  where  the  unwarning  tropic  gale 
Smote  to  the  waves  thy  tattered  sail, 
Or  where  the  noon-hour's  fervid  heat 
Against  Tahiti's  mountains  beat ; 

The  same  mysterious  Hand  which 
gave 

Deliverance  upon  land  and  wave, 
Tempered  for  thee  the  blasts  which 
blew 

Ladaga's  frozen  surface  o'er, 
And  blessed  for  thee  the  baleful  dew 

Of  evening  upon  Eimeo's  shore, 
Beneath  this  sunny  heaven  of  ours, 
Midst  our  soft  airs  and  opening  flowers 

Hath  given  thee  a  grave! 

\ 

His  will  be  done, 

Who  seeth  not  as  man,  whose  way 
Is    not  as  ours !  —  'T  is  well  with 

thee! 

Nor  anxious  doubt  nor  dark  dismay 
Disquieted  thy  closing  day, 
But,  evermore,  thy  soul  could  say, 

"My  Father  careth  still  for  me!" 
Called  from  thy  hearth  and  home,  — • 

from  her, 

The  last  bud  on  thy  household  tree, 
The  last  dear  one  to  minister 
In  duty  and  in  love  to  thee, 
From  all  which  nature  holdeth  dear, 
Feeble  with  'years  and  worn  with 

pain, 

To  seek  our  distant  land  again, 
Bound  in  the  spirit,  yet  unknowing 
The  things  which  should  befall  thee 

here, 

Whether  for  labor  or  for  death, 
In  childlike  trust  serenely  going 
To  that  last  trial  of  thy  faith! 

O,  far  away, 

Where  never  shines  our  Northern  star 
On  that  dark  waste  which  Balboa 
saw 


From  Darien's  mountains  stretching 

far, 
So  strange,  heaven-broad,  and  lone, 

that  there, 
With  forehead  to  its  damp  wind  bare, 

He  bent  his  mailed  knee  in  awe ; 
In  many  an  isle  whose  coral  feet 
The  surges  of  that  ocean  beat, 
In  thy  palm  shadows,  Oahu, 

And  Honolulu's  silver  bay, 
Amidst  Owyhee's  hills  of  blue, 

And  taro-plains  of  Tooboonai, 
Are  gentle  hearts,  which  long  shall  be 
Sad  as  our  own  at  thought  of  thee,  — 
Worn  sowers  of  Truth's  holy  seed, 
Whose  souls  in  weariness  and  need 

Were  strengthened  and  refreshed 

by  thine. 
For  blessed  by  our  Father's  hand 

Was  thy  deep  love  and  tender  care, 

Thy  ministry  and  fervent  prayer,  — 
Grateful  as  Eschol's  clustered  vine 
To  Israel  in  a  weary  land ! 

And  they  who  drew 
By  thousands  round  thee,  in  the  hour 
Of  prayerful  waiting,  hushed  and 

deep, 

That  He  who  bade  the  islands  keep 
Silence  before  him,  might  renew 
Their  strength  with  his  unslumber- 

ing  power, 
They  too  shall  mourn  that  thou  art 

gone, 

That  nevermore  thy  aged  lip 
Shall  soothe  the  weak,  the  erring  warn, 
Of  those  who  first,  rejoicing,  heard 
Through  thee  the   Gospel's  glorious 

word,  — 

Seals  of  thy  true  apostleship. 
And,  if  the  brightest  diadem, 

Whose  gems  of  glory  purely  burn 
Around  the  ransomed  ones  in  bliss, 
Be  evermore  reserved  for  them 

Who  here,  through  toil  and  sorrow, 

turn 

Many  to  righteousness,  — 
May  we  not  think  of  thee  as  wearing 
That  star-like  crown   of   light,  and 
bearing, 


174 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Amidst  Heaven's  white  and   blissful 

band, 

The  fadeless  palm-branch  in  thy  hand  ; 
And  joining  with  a  seraph's  tongue 
In  that  new  song  the  elders  sung, 
Ascribing  to  its  blessed  Giver 
Thanksgiving,   love,   and  praise  for- 
ever! 

Farewell ! 

And  though  the  ways  of  Zion  mourn 
When  her  strong  ones  are  called  away, 
Who  like  thyself  have  calmly  borne 
The  heat  and  burden  of  the  day, 
Yet    He    who    slumbereth    not    nor 

sleepeth 

His  ancient  watch  around  us  keepeth  ; 
Still,  sent  from  his  creating  hand, 
New  witnesses  for  Truth  shall  stand, — 
New  instruments  to  sound  abroad 
The  Gospel  of  a  risen  Lord  ; 

To  gather  to  the  fold  once  more 
The  desolate  and  gone  astray, 
The  scattered  of  a  cloudy  day, 

And  Zion's  broken  walls  restore  ; 
And,  through  the  travail  and  the  toil 

Of  true  obedience,  minister 
Beauty  for  ashes,  and  the  oil 

Of  joy  for  mourning,  unto  her! 
So  shall  her  holy  bounds  increase 
With   walls   of  praise   and   gates  of 

peace  : 

So  shall  the  Vine,  which  martyr  tears 
And  blood  sustained  in  other  years, 

With  fresher  life  be  clothed  upon  ; 
And  to  the  world  in  beauty  show 
Like  the  rose-plant  of  Jericho, 

And  glorious  as  Lebanon ! 


DANIEL  NEALL. 


FRIEND   of  the   Slave,  and  yet  the 

friend  of  all ; 
Lover  of  peace,  yet  ever  foremost 

when 
The     need    of   battling    Freedom 

called  for  men 


To  plant  the  banner  on  the  outer  wall ; 

Gentle  and  kindly,  ever  at  distress 

Melted  to  more  than  woman's  tender- 
ness, 

Yet  firm  and  steadfast,  at  his  duty's 
post 

Fronting  the  violence  of  a  maddened 
host, 

Like  some  gray  rock  from  which  the 
waves  are  tossed! 

Knowing  his  deeds  of  love,  men  ques- 
tioned not 

The  faith  of  one  whose  walk  and 
word  were  right, — 

Who  tranquilly  in  Life's  great  task- 
field  wrought, 

And,  side  by  side  with  evil,  scarcely 

caught 

A  stain   upon  his  pilgrim  garb  of 
white : 

Prompt  to  redress  another's  wrong, 
his  own 

Leaving  to  Time  and  Truth  and  Peni- 
tence alone. 

II. 

Such  was  our  friend.  Formed  on  the 
good  old  plan, 

A  true  and  brave  and  downright  hon- 
est man !  — 

He  blew  no  trumpet  in  the  market- 
place, 

Nor  in  the  church  with  hypocritic  face 

Supplied  with  cant  the  lack  of  Chris- 
tian grace ; 

Loathing  pretence,  he  did  with  cheer- 
ful will 

What  others  talked  of  while  their 
hands  were  still : 

And,  while  "Lord,  Lord!"  the  pious 
tyrants  cried, 

Who,  in  the  poor,  their  Master  cruci- 
fied, 

His  daily  prayer,  far  better  under- 
stood 

In  acts  than  words,  was  simply  DOING 
GOOD. 

So  calm,  so  constant  was  his  recti- 
tude, 


GONE. 


175 


That,  by  his  loss  alone  we  know  its 

worth, 
And  feel  how  true  a  man  has  walked 

with  us  on  earth. 

6th  6th  month,  1846. 


TO      MY     FRIEND      ON      THE 
DEATH   OF   HIS   SISTER. 

THINE  is  a  grief,  the  depth  of  which 

another 

May  never  know ; 
Yet,  o'er  the  waters,  O  my  stricken 

brother ! 
To  thee  I  go. 

I  lean  my  heart  unto  thee,  sadly  fold- 
ing 

Thy  hand  in  mine ; 
With  even  the  weakness  of  my  soul 

upholding 
The  strength  of  thine. 

I  never  knew,  like  thee,  the  dear  de- 
parted ; 
I  stood  not  by 
When,  in  calm  trust,  the    pure    and 

tranquil-hearted 
Lay  down  to  die. 

And  on  thy  ears  my  words  of  weak 

condoling 
Must  vainly  fall : 
The  funeral  bell  which  in  thy  heart  is 

tolling, 
Sounds  over  all! 

I  will  not  mock  thee  with    the  poor 

world's  common 
And  heartless  phrase, 
Nor  wrong  the  memory  of  a  sainted 

woman 
With  idle  praise. 

With  silence  only  as  their  benediction, 

God's  angels  come 

Where,   in   the   shadow   of   a   great 
affliction, 

The  soul  sits  dumb ! 


Yet,  would  I  say  what  thy  own  heart 
appro veth : 

Our  Father's  will, 
Calling  to  Him  the  dear  one  whom 

He  loveth, 
Is  mercy  still. 

Not   upon  thee  or  thine  the  solemn 

angel 

Hath  evil  wrought ; 
Her  funeral  anthem  is  a  glad  evan- 
gel,— 
The  good  die  not! 

God  calls  our  loved  ones,  but  we  lose 

not  wholly 

What  He  hath  given  ; 
They  live  on  earth,  in    thought  and 

deed,  as  truly 
As  in  his  heaven. 

And  she  is  with  thee  ;  in  thy  path  of 

trial 

She  walketh  yet ; 

Still    with    the    baptism   of  thy  self- 
denial 
Her  locks  are  wet. 

Up,  then,  my  brother!     Lo,  the  fields 

of  harvest 
Lie  white  in  view ! 
She   lives   and   loves   thee,   and   the 

God  thou  servest 
To  both  is  true. 

Thrust  in  thy  sickle !  —  England's  toil- 
worn  peasants 
Thy  call  abide ; 
And  she  thou  mourn'st,  a  pure  and 

holy  presence, 
Shall  glean  beside! 


GONE. 

ANOTHER  hand  is  beckoning  us, 

Another  call  is  given  ; 
And  glows   once   more   with  Angel- 
steps 

The  path  which  reaches  Heaven. 


1 76 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Dur  young  and  gentle  friend,  whose 
smile 

Made  brighter  summer  hours, 
Amidst  the  frosts  of  autumn  time 

Has  left  us  with  the  flowers. 

No  paling  of  the  cheek  of  bloom 

Forewarned  us  of  decay  ; 
No  shadow  from  the  Silent  Land 

Fell  round  our  sister's  way. 

The  light  of  her  young  life  went  down, 

As  sinks  behind  the  hill 
The  glory  of  a  setting  star,  — 

Clear,  suddenly,  and  still. 

As   pure   and   sweet,  her   fair   brow 

seemed 

Eternal  as  the  sky  ; 
And  like  the  brook's  low  song,  her 

voice,  — 
A  sound  which  could  not  die. 

And  half  we  deemed  she  needed  not 
The  changing  of  her  sphere, 

To  give  to  Heaven  a  Shining  One, 
Who  walked  an  Angel  here. 

The  blessing  of  her  quiet  life 

Fell  on  us  like  the  dew ; 
And  good  thoughts,  where  her  foot- 
steps pressed 

Like  fairy  blossoms  grew. 

Sweet  promptings  unto  kindest  deeds 

Were  in  her  very  look  ; 
We  read  her  face,  as  one  who  reads 

A  true  and  holy  book  : 

The  measure  of  a  blessed  hymn, 
To  which  our  hearts  could  move  ; 

The  breathing  of  an  inward  psalm ; 
A  canticle  of  love. 

We  miss  her  in  the  place  of  prayer, 
And  by  the  hearth-fire's  light ; 

We  pause  beside  her  door  to  hear 
Once  more  her  sweet "  Good-night ! " 


There  seems  a  shadow  on  the  day, 
Her  smile  no  longer  cheers  ; 

A  dimness  on  the  stars  of  night, 
Like  eyes  that  look  through  tears. 

Alone  unto  our  Father's  will 
One  thought  hath  reconciled  ; 

That  He  whose  love  exceedeth  ours 
Hath  taken  home  his  child. 

Fold  her,  O  Father!  in  thine  arms, 
And  let  her  henceforth  be 

A  messenger  of  love  between 
Our  human  hearts  and  thee. 

Still  let  her  mild  rebuking  stand 
Between  us  and  the  wrong, 

And  her  dear  memory  serve  to  make 
Our  faith  in  Goodness  strong:. 


And  grant  that  she  who,  trembling, 
here 

Distrusted  all  her  powers, 
May  welcome  to  her  holier  home 

The  well-beloved  of  ours. 


THE   LAKE-SIDE. 

THE  shadows  round  the  inland  sea 

Are  deepening  into  night ; 
Slow  up  the  slopes  of  Ossipee 

They  chase  the  lessening  light. 
Tired  of  the  long  day's  blinding  heat, 

I  rest  my  languid  eye, 
Lake  of  the  Hills!    where,  cool  and 
sweet, 

Thy  sunset  waters  lie! 

Along  the  sky,  in  wavy  lines, 

O'er  isle  and  reach  and  bay, 
Green-belted  with  eternal  pines, 

The  mountains  stretch  away. 
Below,  the  maple  masses  sleep 

Where  shore  with  water  blends, 
While  midway  on  the  tranquil  deep 

The  evening  light  descends. 


THE   HILL-TOP. 


177 


So   seemed   it    when   yon   hill's   red 
crown. 

Of  old,  the  Indian  trod, 
And,  through  the  sunset  air,  looked 
down 

Upon  the  Smile  of  God. 
To  him  of  light  and  shade  the  laws 

No  forest  sceptic  taught ; 
Their  living  and  eternal  Cause 

His  truer  instinct  sought. 

He  saw  these  mountains  in  the  light 

Which  now  across  them  shines  ; 
This  lake,  in  summer  sunset  bright, 

Walled  round  with  sombering  pines. 
God  near  him  seemed  ;  from  earth  and 
skies 

His  loving  voice  he  heard, 
As,  face  to  face,  in  Paradise, 

Man  stood  before  the  Lord. 

Thanks,  O  our  Father!  that,  like  him, 

Thy  tender  love  I  see, 
In  radiant  hill  and  woodland  dim, 

And  tinted  sunset  sea. 
For  not  in  mockery  dost  thou  fill 

Our  earth  with  light  and  grace  ; 
Thou  hid'st  no  dark  and  cruel  will 

Behind  thy  smiling  face ! 


THE   HILL-TOP. 

THE  burly  driver  at  my  side, 

We  slowly  climbed  the  hill, 
Whose  summit,  in  the  hot  noontide, 

Seemed  rising,  rising  still. 
At  last,  our  short  noon-shadows  hid 

The  top-stone,  bare  and  brown, 
From  whence,  like  GizerTs  pyramid, 

The  rough  mass  slanted  down. 

I  felt  the  cool  breath  of  the  North  ; 

Between  me  and  the  sun, 
O'er  deep,  still  lake,  and  ridgy  earth, 

I  saw  the  cloud-shades  run. 
Before   me,  stretched   for  glistening 
miles, 

Lay  mountain-girdled  Squam ; 


Like   green-winged    birds,    the   leafy 

isles 
Upon  its  bosom  swam. 

And,  glimmering  through  the  sun-haze 
warm, 

Far  as  the  eye  could  roam, 
Dark  billows  of  an  earthquake  storm 

Beflecked  with  clouds  like  foam, 
Their  vales  in  misty  shadow  deep, 

Their  rugged  peaks  in  shine, 
I  saw  the  mountain  ranges  sweep 

The  horizon^  northern  line. 

There  towered  Chocorua^  peak  ;  and 
west, 

Moosehillock's  woods  were  seen, 
With  many  a  nameless  slide-scarred 
crest 

And  pine-dark  gorge  between. 
Beyond  them,  like  a  sun-rimmed  cloud, 

The  great  Notch  mountains  shone, 
Watched  over  by  the  solemn-browed 

And  awful  face  of  stone! 

"  A  good  look-off! "  the  driver  spake  : 

"  About  this  time,  last  year, 
I  drove  a  party  to  the  Lake, 

And  stopped,  at  evening,  here. 
'T  was  duskish  down  below  ;  but  all 

These  hills  stood  in  the  sun, 
Till,  dipped  behind  yon  purple  wall, 

He  left  them,  one  by  one. 

"  A  lady,  who,  from  Thornton  hill, 

Had  held  her  place  outside, 
And,  as  a  pleasant  woman  will, 

Had  cheered  the  long,  dull  ride, 
Besought  me,  with  so  sweet  a  smile, 

That  —  though  I  hate  delays  — 
I  could  not  choose  but  rest  awhile,— 

(These  women  have  such  ways!  ) 

"  On  yonder  mossy  ledge  she  sat, 
Her  sketch  upon  her  knees, 

A  stray  brown  lock  beneath  her  hat 
Unrolling  in  the  breeze  ; 

Her  sweet  face,  in  the  sunset  light 
Upraised  and  glorified,  — 


1 78 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


I  never  saw  a  prettier  sight 
In  all  my  mountain  ride. 

"  As  good  as  fair ;  it  seemed  her  joy 

To  comfort  and  to  give  ; 
My  poor,  sick  wife,  and  cripple  boy, 

Will  bless  her  while  they  live!" 
The  tremor  in  the  driver's  tone 

His  manhood  did  not  shame  : 
"  I    dare   say,    sir,    you     may    have 
known  —  " 

He  named  a  well-known  name. 

Then  sank  the  pyramidal  mounds, 

The  blue  lake  fled  away ; 
For  mountain-scope  a  parlor's  bounds, 

A  lighted  hearth  for  day  ! 
From  lonely  years  and  weary  miles 

The  shadows  fell  apart ; 
Kind   voices    cheered,  sweet   human 
smiles 

Shone  warm  into  my  heart. 

We  journeyed  on  ;  but  earth  and  sky 

Had  power  to  charm  no  more ; 
Still  dreamed  my  inward-turning  eye 

The  dream  of  memory  o'er. 
Ah!  human  kindness,  human  love, — 

To  few  who  seek  denied,  — 
Too  late  we  learn  to  prize  above 

The  whole  round  world  beside! 


ON  RECEIVING  AN  EAGLE'S 
QUILL  FROM  LAKE  SUPE- 
RIOR. 

ALL  day  the  darkness  and  the  cold 

Upon  my  heart  have  lain, 
Like  shadows  on  the  winter  sky, 

Like  frost  upon  the  pane ; 

But  now  my  torpid  fancy  wakes, 
And,  on  thy  Eagle's  plume. 

Rides  forth,  like  Sinbad  on  his  bird, 
Or  witch  upon  her  broom ! 

Below  me  roar  the  rocking  pines, 
Before  me  spreads  the  lake 


Whose    long    and    solemn-sounding 

waves 
Against  the  sunset  break. 


I  hear  the  wild  Rice-Eater  thresh 
The  grain  he  has  not  sown  ; 

I  see,  with  flashing  scythe  of  fire, 
The  prairie  harvest  mown ! 

I  hear  the  far-off  voyager's  horn  ; 

I  see  the  Yankee's  trail,  — 
His  foot  on  every  mountain-pass, 

On  every  stream  his  sail. 

By  forest,  lake,  and  waterfall, 

I  see  his  pedler  show  ; 
The  mighty  mingling  with  the  mean, 

The  lofty  with  the  low. 

He's  whittling  by  St.  Mary's  Falls, 

Upon  his  loaded  wain  ; 
He's    measuring   o'er    the    Pictured 
Rocks, 

With  eager  eyes  of  gain. 

I  hear  the  mattock  in  the  mine, 
The  axe-stroke  in  the  dell, 

The  clamor  from  the  Indian  lodge, 
The  Jesuit  chapel  bell ! 

I  see  the  swarthy  trappers  come 
From  Mississippi's  springs  ; 

And   war-chiefs   with    their    painted 

brows, 
And  crests  of  eagle  wings. 

Behind    the    scared     squaw's    birch 
canoe, 

The  steamer  smokes  and  raves  ; 
And  city  lots  are  staked  for  sale 

Above  old  Indian  graves. 

I  hear  the  tread  of  pioneers 

Of  nations  yet  to  be  ; 
The  first  low  wash  of  waves,  where 
soon 

Shall  roll  a  human  sea. 


MEMORIES. 


179 


The  rudiments  of  empire  here 
Are  plastic  yet  and  warm  ; 

The  chaos  of  a  mighty  world 
Is  rounding  into  form! 

Each  rude  and  jostling  fragment  soon 
Its  fitting  place  shall  find,  — 

The  raw  material  of  a  State, 
Its  muscle  and  its  mind! 

And,  westering   still,  the  star  which 
leads 

The  New  World  in  its  train 
Has   tipped  with  fire  the   icy  spears 

Of  many  a  mountain  chain. 

The  snowy  cones  of  Oregon 

Are  kindling  on  its  way  ; 
And  California's  golden  sands 

Gleam  brighter  in  its  ray ! 

Then  blessings  on  thy  eagle  quill, 
As,  wandering  far  and  wide, 

I  thank  thee  for  this  twilight  dream 
And  Fancy's  airy  ride! 

Yet,  welcomer  than  regal  plumes, 
Which  Western  trappers  find, 

Thy  free  and  pleasant  thoughts,  chance 

sown, 
Like  feathers  on  the  wind. 

Thy  symbol  be  the  mountain-bird, 
Whose  glistening  quill  I  hold  ; 

Thy  home  the  ample  air  of  hope, 
And  memory's  sunset  gold ! 

In  thee,  let  joy  with  duty  join, 
And  strength  unite  with  love, 

The  eagle's  pinions  folding  round 
The  warm  heart  of  the  dove ! 

So,  when  in  darkness  sleeps  the  vale 
Where  still  the  blind  bird  clings, 

The  sunshine  of  the  upper  sky 
Shall  glitter  on  thy  wings ! 


MEMORIES. 

A  BEAUTIFUL  and  happy  girl, 

With  step  as  light  as  summer  air, 
Eyes  glad  with  smiles,  and  brow  of 

pearl, 
Shadowed  by  many  a  careless  curl 

Of unconfined  and  flowing  hair; 
A  seeming  child  in  everything, 

Save  thoughtful  brow  and  ripening 

charms, 
As  Nature  wears  the  smile  of  Spring 

When  sinking  into  Summer's  arms. 

A  mind  rejoicing  in  the  light 

Which  melted  through  its  graceful 

bower, 

Leaf  after  leaf,  dew-moist  and  bright, 
And  stainless  in  its  holy  white, 

Unfolding  like  a  morning  flower : 
A  heart,  which,  like  a  fine-toned  lute, 

With  every  breath  of  feeling  woke, 
And,    even    when    the    tongue    was 
mute, 

From  eye  and  lip  in  music  spoke. 

How  thrills  once  more  the  lengthen- 
ing chain 

Of  memory,  at  the  thought  of  thee ! 
Old  hopes  which  long  in  dust  have 

lain, 
Old    dreams,   come    thronging  back 

again, 

And  boyhood  lives  again  in  me ; 
I  feel  its  glow  upon  my  cheek, 

Its  fulness  of  the  heart  is  mine, 
As  when  I  leaned  to  hear  thee  speak, 
Or  raised  my  doubtful  eye  to  thine. 

I  hear  again  thy  low  replies, 

I  feel  thy  arm  within  my  own, 
And  timidly  again  uprise 
The  fringed  lids  of  hazel  eyes, 

With  soft  brown  tresses  overblown. 
Ah  !  memories  of  sweet  summer  eves, 

Of  moonlit  wave  and  willowy  way, 
Of  stars  and  flowers,  and  dewy  leaves, 

And  smiles  and   tones  more   dear 
than  they ! 


i8o 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Ere  this,  thy  quiet  eye  hath  smiled 

My  picture  of  thy  youth  to  see. 
When,  half  a  woman,  half  a  child, 
Thy  very  artlessness  beguiled. 

And  folly's  self  seemed  wise  in  thee  ; 
I  too  can  smile,  when  o'er  that  hour 

The   lights    of  memory    backward 

stream, 

Yet   feel  the  while   that   manhood's 
power 

Is  vainer  than  my  boyhood's  dream. 

Years  have  passed  on,  and  left  their 

trace 

Of  graver  care  and  deeper  thought ; 
And  unto  me  the  calm,  cold  face 
Of  manhood,  and  to  thee  the  grace 

Of  woman's  pensive  beauty  brought. 
More  wide,  perchance,  for  blame  than 

praise, 
The  school-boy's  humble  name  has 

flown ; 

Thine,  in  the  green  and  quiet  ways 
Of  unobtrusive  goodness  known. 

And  wider  yet  in  thought  and  deed 

Diverge  our  path  ways,  one  in  youth  ; 
Thine  the  Genevan's  sternest  creed, 
While  answers  to  my  spirit's  need 

The  Derby  dalesman's  simple  truth. 
For  thee,  the  priestly  rite  and  prayer, 

And  holy  day,  and  solemn  psalm ; 
For  me,  the  silent  reverence  where 

My  brethren  gather,  slow  and  calm. 

Yet  hath  thy  spirit  left  on  me 

An  impress  Time  has  worn  not  out, 
And  something  of  myself  in  thee, 
A  shadow  from  the  past,  I  see, 

Lingering,  even  yet,  thy  way  about ; 
Not  wholly  can  the  heart  unlearn 

That  lesson  of  its  better  hours, 
Not  yet  has  Time's  dull  footstep  worn 

To  common  dust  that  path  of  flow- 
ers. 

Thus,  while  at  times  before  our  eyes 

The  shadows  melt,  and  fall  apart, 
And,  smiling  through  them,  round  us 
lies 


The    warm    light    of    our    morning 

skies,  — 

The  Indian  Summer  of  the  heart!  — 
In  secret  sympathies  of  mind, 

In  founts  of  feeling  which  retain 
Their  pure,  fresh    flow,  we  yet  may 

find 
Our  early  dreams  not  wholly  vain! 


THE    LEGEND    OF    ST.    MARK. 

THE  day  is  closing  dark  and  cold. 
With     roaring     blast    and     sleety 

showers  ; 

And  through  the  dusk  the  lilacs  wear 
The   bloom   of   snow,   instead    of 
flowers. 

I  turn  me  from  the  gloom  without, 
To  ponder  o'er  a  tale  of  old, 

A  legend  of  the  age  of  Faith, 

By  dreaming  monk  or  abbess  told. 

On  Tintoretto's  canvas  lives 
That  fancy  of  a  loving  heart, 

In  graceful  lines  and  shapes  of  power, 
And  hues  immortal  as  his  art. 

In  Provence  (so  the  story  runs) 
There   lived   a   lord,  to  whom,  as 

slave, 
A  peasant-boy  of  tender  years 

The  chance   of  trade  or  conquest 
gave. 

Forth-looking  from  the  castle  tower, 
Beyond  the  hills  with  almonds  dark, 

The  straining  eye  could  scarce  discern 
The  chapel  of  the  good  St.  Mark. 

And  there,  when  bitter  word  or  fare 
The  service  of  the  youth  repaid, 

By  stealth,  before  that  holy  shrine, 
For  grace   to    bear  his  wrong,  he 
prayed. 

The  steed  stamped  at  the  castle  gate, 
The  boar-hunt  sounded  on  the  hill ; 


THE   WELL   OF   LOCH    MAREE. 


181 


Why  stayed  the  Baron  from  the  chase, 
With  looks  so  stern,  and  words  so 
ill? 

"  Go,    bind   yon   slave!  and   let  him 

learn, 

By  scath  of  fire  and  strain  of  cord, 
How  ill  they  speed  who  give  dead 

saints 
The  homage  due  their  living  lord ! " 

They  bound  him  on  the  fearful  rack, 
When,     through     the     dungeon's 

vaulted  dark, 

He  saw  the  light  of  shining  robes, 
And   knew   the   face   of  good   St. 
Mark. 

Then  sank  the  iron  rack  apart, 

The  cords  released  their  cruel  clasp, 

The  pincers,  with  their  teeth  of  fire, 
Fell    broken    from    the    torturer's 
grasp. 

And  lo !  before  the  Youth  and  Saint, 
Barred  door  and  wall  of  stone  gave 

way ; 

And  up  from  bondage  and  the  night 
They   passed  to  freedom   and  the 
day! 

O  dreaming  monk !  thy  tale  is  true ;  — 
O  painter!  true  thy  pencil's  art; 

In  tones  of  hope  and  prophecy, 
Ye  whisper  to  my  listening  heart ! 

Unheard  no  burdened  heart's  appeal 
Moans  up  to  God's  inclining  ear ; 

Unheeded  by  his  tender  eye, 

Falls  to  the  earth  no  sufferer's  tear. 

For  still  the  Lord  alone  is  God ! 

The  pomp  and  power  of  tyrant  man 
Are  scattered  at  his  lightest  breath, 

Like  chaff  before  the  winnower's 
fan. 

Not  always  shall  the  slave  uplift 
His  heavy  hands  to  Heaven  in  vain. 


God's  angel,  like  the  good  St.  Mark, 
Comes  shining  down  to  break  his 
chain ! 

O  weary  ones!  ye  may  not  see 

Your   helpers   in   their    downward 

flight ; 

Nor  hear  the  sound  of  silver  wings 
Slow  beating  through  the  hush  of 
night ! 

But  not  the  less  gray  Dothan  shone, 
With   sunbright  watchers  bending 
low, 

That  Fear's  dim  eye  beheld  alone 
The  spear-heads  of  the  Syrian  foe. 

There  are,  who,  like  the  Seer  of  old, 
Can  see  the  helpers  God  has  sent, 

And  how  life's  rugged  mountain-side 
Is  white  with  many  an  angel  tent! 

They   hear   the    heralds   whom    our 

Lord 

Sends   down   his   pathway  to  pre- 
pare; 

And  light,  from  others  hidden,  shines 
On   their  high  place   of  faith  and 
prayer. 

Let  such,  for  earth's  despairing  ones, 

Hopeless,  yet  longing  to  be  free, 
'Breathe    once    again    the    Prophet's 

prayer : 

"  Lord,    ope   their  eyes,  that  they 
may  see!  " 


THE  WELL  OF  LOCH  MAREE. 

CALM  on  the  breast  of  Loch  Maree 

A  little  isle  reposes  ; 
A  shadow  woven  of  the  oak 

And  willow  o'er  it  closes. 

Within,  a  Druid's  mound  is  seen, 
Set  round  with  stony  warders : 

A  fountain,  gushing  through  the  turf, 
Flows  o'er  its  grassy  borders. 


1 82 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


And  whoso  bathes  therein  his  brow, 
With  care  or  madness  burning, 

Feels  once  again  his  healthful  thought 
And  sense  of  peace  returning. 

O  restless  heart  and  fevered  brain, 

Unquiet  and  unstable, 
That  holy  well  of  Loch  Maree 

Is  more  than  idle  fable ! 

Life's  changes  vex,  its  discords  stun, 
Its  glaring  sunshine  blindeth, 

And  blest  is  he  who  on  his  way 
That  fount  of  healing  fmcleth! 

The  shadows  of  a  humbled  will 
And  contrite  heart  are  o'er  it ; 

Go    read    its    legend — "TRUST    IN 

GOD"  — 
On  Faith's  white  stones  before  it. 


TO  MY  SISTER; 

WITH   A   COPY   OF     "  SUPERNATURAL- 
ISM   OF   NEW   ENGLAND." 

DEAR  SISTER!  —  while  the  wise  and 

sage 

Turn  coldly  from  my  playful  page, 
And  count  it  strange  that  ripened  age 

Should  stoop  to  boyhood's  folly  ; 
I  know  that  thou  wilt  judge  aright 
Of  all  which  makes  the  heart  more 

light, 
Or  lends  one  star-gleam  to  the  night 

Of  clouded  Melancholy. 

Away  with  weary  cares  and  themes!  — 
Swing    wide    the    moonlit    gate     of 

dreams ! 
Leave  free  once  more  the  land  which 

teems 

With  wonders  and  romances! 
Where   thou,    with    clear   discerning 

eyes, 
Shalt   rightly   read   the    truth  which 

lies 

Beneath  the  quaintly  masking  guise 
Of  wild  and  wizard  fancies. 


Lo!  once  again  our  feet  we  set 

On  still  green  wood-paths,   twilight 

wet, 
By  lonely  brooks,  whose  waters  fret 

The  roots  of  spectral  beeches  ; 
Again  the  hearth-fire  glimmers  o'er 
Home's  whitewashed  wall  and  painted 

floor, 
And  young  eyes  widening  to  the  lore 

Of  faery-folks  and  witches. 

Dear  heart! —  the  legend  is  not  vain 
Which  lights  that  holy  hearth  again, 
And  calling  back  from  care  and  pain, 

And  death's  funereal  sadness, 
Draws  round  its  old  familiar  blaze 
The  clustering  groups  of  happier  days, 
And  lends  to  sober  manhood's  gaze 

A  glimpse  of  childish  gladness. 

And,  knowing  how  my  life  hath  been 
A  weary  work  of  tongue  and  pen, 
A  long,  harsh  strife  with  strong-willed 
men, 

Thou  wilt  not  chide  my  turning 
To  con,  at  times,  an  idle  rhyme, 
To  pluck  a  flower  from    childhood's 

clime, 
Or  listen,  at  Life's  noonday  chime, 

For  the  sweet  bells  of  Morning! 


AUTUMN   THOUGHTS. 

FROM     "  MARGARET      SMITH'S     JOUR- 
NAL." 

GONE   hath   the  Spring,  with  all  its 

flowers, 
And  gone  the  Summer's  pomp  and 

show, 

And  Autumn,  in  his  leafless  bowers, 
Is  waiting  for  the  Winter's  snow. 

I  said  to  Earth,  so  cold  and  gray, 
"  An  emblem  of  myself  thou  art  "  ; 

"  Not  so,"  the  Earth  did  seem  to  say, 
"  For  Spring  shall  warm  my  frozen 
heart." 


TO   PIUS  IX. 


183 


1  soothe  my  wintry  sleep  with  dreams 
Of  warmer  sun  and  softer  rain, 

And  wait  to  hear  the  sound  of  streams 
And  songs  of  merry  birds  again. 

But  thou,  from  whom  the  Spring  hath 

gone, 
For  whom  the  flowers  no  longer 

blow, 

Who  standest  blighted  and  forlorn, 
Like  Autumn  waiting  for  the  snow  : 

No  hope  is  thine  of  sunnier  hours, 
Thy  Winter  shall  no  more  depart ; 

No  Spring  revive  thy  wasted  flowers, 
Nor  Summer  warm  thy  frozen  heart. 


CALEF   IN    BOSTON. 

1692. 

IN  the  solemn  days  of  old, 

Two  men  met  in  Boston  town, 

One  a  tradesman  frank  and  bold, 
One  a  preacher  of  renown. 

Cried  the  last,  in  bitter  tone,  — 
"  Poisoner  of  the  wells  of  truth  ! 

Satan's  hireling,  thou  hast  sown 
With  his  tares  the  heart  of  youth!" 

Spake  the  simple  tradesman  then,— 
"•  God  be  judge  'twixt  thou  and  I ; 

All  thou  knowest  of  truth  hath  been 
Unto  men  like  thee  a  lie. 

"  Falsehoods  which  we  spurn  to-day 
Were  the  truths  of  long  ago  ; 

Let  the  dead  boughs  fall  away, 
Fresher  shall  the  living  grow. 

"  God  is  good  and  God  is  light, 
In  this  faith  I  rest  secure ; 

Evil  can  but  serve  the  right, 
Over  all  shall  love  endure. 

"  Of  your  spectral  puppet  play 
I  have  traced  the  cunning  wires  ; 

Come  what  will,  I  needs  must  say, 
God  is  true,  and  ye  are  liars.1' 


When  the  thought  of  man  is  free, 
Error  fears  its  lightest  tones  ; 

So  the  priest  cried,  "  Sadducee!" 
And  the  people  took  up  stones. 

In  the  ancient  burying-ground, 
Side  by  side  the  twain  now  lie, — 

One  with  humble  grassy  mound, 
One  with  marbles  pale  and  high. 

But  the  Lord  hath  blessed  the  seed 
Which   that    tradesman    scattered 
then, 

And  the  preacher's  spectral  creed 
Chills  no  more  the  blood  of  men. 

Let  us  trust,  to  one  is  known 

Perfect  love  which  casts  out  fear, 

While  the  other's  joys  atone 
For  the  wrong  he  suffered  here. 


TO    PIUS   IX. 

THE  cannon's  brazen  lips  are  cold ; 

No  red  shell  blazes  down  the  air ; 
And  street  and  tower,  and  temple  old, 

Are  silent  as  despair. 

The    Lombard    stands    no    more   at 

bay, — 
Rome's  fresh  young  life  has  bled  in 

vain; 

The  ravens  scattered  by  the  day 
Come  back  with  night  again. 

Now,  while  the  fratricides  of  France 
Are  treading  on  the  neck  of  Rome, 

Hicler  at  Gaeta,  —  seize  thy  chance! 
Coward  and  cruel,  come ! 

Creep  now  from  Naples'  bloody  skirt ; 

Thy  mummer's  part  was  acted  well. 
While  Rome,  with  steel  and  fire  be- 
girt, 

Before  thy  crusade  fell ! 

Her    death -groans   answered   to    thy 

prayer; 
Thy  chant,  the  drum  and  bugle-call ; 


184 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Thy  lights,  the  burning  villa's  glare ; 
Thy  beads,  the  shell  and  ball ! 

Let  Austria  clear  thy  way.  with  hands 
Foul  from  Ancona's  cruel  sack, 

And  Naples,  with  his  dastard  bands 
Of  murderers,  lead  thee  back ! 

Rome's  lips  are  dumb ;  the  orphan's 

wail, 
The  mother's   shriek,   thou   mayst 

not  hear 

Above  the  faithless  Frenchman's  hail, 
The  unsexed  shaveling's  cheer! 

Go,  bind  on  Rome  her  cast-off  weight, 
The  double  curse  of  crook  and 

crown, 

Though   woman's    scorn    and    man- 
hood's hate 
From  wall  and  roof  flash  down ! 

Nor  heed  those  blood-stains  on  the 
wall, 

Not  Tiber's  flood  can  wash  away, 
Where,  in  thy  stately  Quirinal, 

Thy  mangled  victims  lay ! 

Let  the  world  murmur ;  let  its  cry 
Of  horror  and  disgust  be  heard  ;  — 

Truth  stands  alone ;  thy  coward  lie 
Is  backed  by  lance  and  sword ! 

The  cannon  of  St.  Angelo, 

And  chanting  priest  and  clanging 

bell, 
And  beat  of  drum  and  bugle  blow, 

Shall  greet  thy  coming  well ! 

Let  lips  of  iron  and  tongues  of  slaves 
Fit  welcome  give  thee;  —  for  her 

part, 
Rome,  frowning  o'er  her  new-made 

graves, 
Shall  curse  thee  from  her  heart ! 

No  wreaths  of  sad  Campagna's  flowers 
Shall  childhood  in  thy  pathway  fling ; 

No  garlands  from  their  ravaged  bowers 
Shall  Term's  maidens  bring ; 


But,  hateful  as  that  tyrant  old, 

The  mocking  witness  of  his  crime, 

In  thee  shall  loathing  eyes  behold 
The  Nero  of  our  time! 

Stand  where  Rome's  blood  was  freest 

shed, 
Mock  Heaven  with  impious  thanks, 

and  call 

Its  curses  on  the  patriot  dead, 
Its  blessings  on  the  Gaul! 

Or  sit  upon  thy  throne  of  lies, 

A     poor,     mean     idol,    blood-be- 
smeared, 

Whom  even  its  worshippers  despise, — 
Unhonored,  unrevered ! 

Yet,  Scandal  of  the  World !  from  thee 
One    needful  truth   mankind   shall 
learn, — 

That  kings  and  priests  to  Liberty 
And  God  are  false  in  turn. 

Earth  wearies  of  them  ;  and  the  long 
Meek  sufferance   of  the   Heavens 

doth  fail ; 
Woe    for    weak    tyrants,    when    the 

strong 
Wake,  struggle,  and  prevail ! 

Not  vainly  Roman  hearts  have  bled 
To  feed  the  Crozier  and  the  Crown, 

If,   roused    thereby,   the   world  shall 

tread 
The  twin-born  vampires  down ! 


ELLIOTT. 

HANDS  off!  thou  tithe-fat  plunderer! 
play 

No  trick  of  priestcraft  here ! 
Back,  puny  lordling!  darest  thou  lay 

A  hand  on  Elliott's  bier? 
Alive,  your  rank  and  pomp,  as  dust, 

Beneath  his  feet  he  trod  : 
He  knew  the  locust  swarm  that  cursed 

The  harvest-fields  of  God. 


ICHABOD. 


185 


On  these  pale  lips,   the   smothered 

thought 

Which  England's  millions  feel, 
A  fierce  and  fearful  splendor  caught, 

As  from  his  forge  the  steel. 
Strong-armed  as  Thor,  — a  shower  of 

fire 

His  smitten  anvil  flung ; 
God's    curse,    Earth's    wrong,    dumb 

Hunger's  ire, — 
He  gave  them  all  a  tongue ! 

Then  let  the  poor  man's  horny  hands 

Bear  up  the  mighty  dead, 
And  labor's  swart  and  stalwart  bands 

Behind  as  mourners  tread. 
Leave  cant  and   craft  their  baptized 
bounds, 

Leave  rank  its  minster  floor ; 
Give    England's   green    and    daisied 
grounds 

The  poet  of  the  poor! 

Lay   down   upon   his    Sheaf's    green 

verge 

That  brave  old  heart  of  oak, 
With    fitting    dirge    from    sounding 

forge, 

And  pall  of  furnace  smoke ! 
Where    whirls    the   .stone    its    dizzy 

rounds. 

And  axe  and  sledge  are  swung, 
And,  timing  to  their  stormy  sounds, 
His  stormy  lays  are  sung. 

There  let  the  peasant's  step  be  heard, 

The  grinder  chant  his  rhyme ; 
Nor  patron's  praise  nor  dainty  word 

Befits  the  man  or  time. 
No  soft  lament  nor  dreamer's  sigh 

For  him  whose  words  were  bread,  — 
The  Runic  rhyme  and  spell  whereby 

The  foodless  poor  were  fed ! 

Pile  up  thy  tombs  of  rank  and  pride, 

O  England,  as  thou  wilt! 
With  pomp  to  nameless  worth  denied, 

Emblazon  titled  guilt! 
No  part  or  lot  in  these  we  claim ; 

But,  o'er  the  sounding  wave, 


A  common  right  to  Elliott's  name, 
A  freehold  in  his  grave ! 


ICHABOD! 

So  fallen!  so  lost!  the  light  withdrawn 

Which  once  he  wore! 
The  glory  from  his  gray  hairs  gone 

Forevermore! 

Revile  him  not,  —  the  Tempter  hath 

A  snare  for  all ; 
And  pitying  tears,  not  scorn  and  wrath, 

Befit  his  fall! 

O,  dumb  be  passion's  stormy  rage, 

When  he  who  might 
Have  lighted  up  and  led  his  age, 

Falls  back  in  night. 

Scorn !  would  the  angels  laugh,  to  mark 

A  bright  soul  driven, 
Fiend-goaded,  down  the  endless  dark, 

From  hope  and  heaven ! 

Let  not  the  land  once  proud  of  him 

Insult  him  now, 
Nor  brand  with  deeper  shame  his  dim, 

Dishonored  brow. 

But  let  its  humbled  sons,  instead, 

From  sea  to  lake, 
A  long  lament,  as  for  the  dead, 

In  sadness  make. 

Of  all  we  loved  and  honored,  naught 

Save  power  remains,  — 
A  fallen  angel's  pride  of  thought, 

Still  strong  in  chains. 

All  else  is  gone  ;  from  those  great  eyes 

The  soul  has  fled  : 
When  faith  is  lost,  when  honor  dies, 

The  man  is  dead! 

Then,  pay  the  reverence  of  old  days 

To  his  dead  fame ; 
Walk  backward,  with  averted  gaze, 

And  hide  the  shame ! 


1 86 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE  CHRISTIAN  TOURISTS. 

No  aimless  wanderers,  by  the  fiend 

Unrest 

Goaded  from  shore  to  shore ; 
No  schoolmen,  turning,  in  their  classic 

quest. 

The  leaves  of  empire  o'er. 
Simple  of  faith,  and  bearing  in  their 

hearts 

The  love  of  man  and  God, 
Isles  of  old  song,  the  Moslem's  ancient 

marts, 
And  Scythia's  steppes,  they  trod. 

Where  the  long  shadows  of  the  fir  and 

pine 

In  the  night  sun  are  cast, 
And  the  deep  heart  of  many  a  Norland 

mine 

Quakes  at  each  riving  blast  •; 
Where,  in  barbaric  grandeur,  Moskwa 

stands, 

A  baptized  Scythian  queen,         • 
With  Europe's  arts  and  Asia's  jewelled 

hands, 
The  North  and  East  between! 

Where  still,  through  vales  of  Grecian 

fable,  stray 

The  classic  forms  of  yore, 
And  Beauty  smiles,  new  risen  from  the 

spray, 

And  Dian  weeps  once  more ; 
Where  every  tongue  in  Smyrna's  mart 

resounds  ; 

And  Stamboul  from  the  sea 
Lifts    her   tall   minarets   over   burial- 
grounds 
Black  with  the  cypress-tree! 

From  Malta's  temples  to  the  gates  of 

Rome, 

Following  the  track  of  Paul, 
And  where  the  Alps  gird  round  the 

Switzer's  home 
Their  vast,  eternal  wall ; 
They  paused  not  by  the  ruins  of  old 

time, 
They  scanned  no  pictures  rare, 


Nor  lingered  where  the  snow-locked 

mountains  climb 
The  cold  abyss  of  air! 

But  unto  prisons,  where  men  lay  in 

chains, 

To  haunts  where  Hunger  pined, 
To  kings  and  courts  forgetful  of  the 

pains 

And  wants  of  human-kind, 
Scattering    sweet    words,    and    quiet 

deeds  of  good, 

Along  their  way,  like  flowers, 
Or  pleading,  as  Christ's  freemen  only 

could, 
With  princes  and  with  powers  ; 

Their  single  aim  the  purpose  to  fulfil 

Of  Truth,  from  day  to  day, 
Simply  obedient  to  its  guiding  will, 

They  held  their  pilgrim  way. 
Yet  dream  not,  hence,  the  beautiful 
and  old 

Were  wasted  on  their  sight, 
Who    in   the    school    of   Christ    had 
learned  to  hold 

All  outward  things  aright. 

Not  less  to  them  the  breath  of  vine- 

yards blown 

From  off  the  Cyprian  shore, 
Not  less  for  them  the  Alps  in  sunset 

shone, 

That  man  they  valued  more. 
A  life  of  beauty  lends  to  all  it  sees 

The  beauty  of  its  thought  ; 
And  fairest  forms  and  sweetest  harmo- 

nies 
Make  glad  its  way,  unsought. 


In  sweet  accordancy  of  praise  and  love, 

The  singing  waters  run  ; 
And  sunset  mountains  wear  in  light 

above 

The  smile  of  duty  done  ; 
Sure  stands  the  promise,  —  ever  to  the 

meek 
A  heritage  is  given  ; 


THE   MEN   OF   OLD. 


187 


Nor    lose    they   Earth   who,   single- 
hearted,  seek 
The  righteousness  of  Heaven! 


THE   MEN    OF   OLD. 

WELL  speed  thy  mission,  bold  Icono- 
clast! 

Yet  all  unworthy  of  its  trust  thou  art, 
If,  with  dry  eye,  and  cold,  unloving 

heart, 
Thou  treacFst  the  solemn  Pantheon  of 

the  Past, 
By  the  great  Future's  dazzling  hope 

made  blind 
To  all  the  beauty,  power,  and  truth 

behind. 
Not   without   reverent  awe    shoulclst 

thou  put  by 

The  cypress  branches  and  the  ama- 
ranth blooms, 
Where,  with  clasped  hands  of  prayer, 

upon  their  tombs 
The  effigies  of  old  confessors  lie, 
God's  witnesses  ;  the  voices  of  his  will, 
Heard  in  the  slow  march  of  the  cen- 
turies still! 
Such  were  the  men  at  whose  rebuking 

frown, 
Dark  with  God's  wrath,  the  tyrant's 

knee  went  down ; 
Such   from  the  terrors  of  the  guilty 

drew 

The  vassal's   freedom  and  the  poor 
man's  due. 

St.  Ansel m  (may  he  rest  forevermore 
In  Heaven's  sweet  peace!)  forbade, 

of  old,  the  sale 
Of  men    as  slaves,  and    from  the 

sacred  pale 
Hurled  the  Northumbrian  buyers  of 

the  poor. 
To  ransom  souls  from  bonds  and  evil 

fate 
St.  Ambrose  melted  down  the  sacred 

plate, — 
Image  of  saint,  the  chalice,  and  the 

pix, 


Crosses  of  gold,  and  silver  candle- 
sticks. 

"  MAN    IS   WORTH   MORE   THAN   TEM- 
PLES!"  he  replied 

To  such  as   came  his  holy  work  to 
chide. 

And  brave  Cesarius,  stripping  altars 

bare, 

And    coining    from    the    Abbey's 
golden  hoard 

The  captive's    freedom,  answered  to 

the  prayer 

Or  threat  of  those  whose  fierce  zeal 
for  the  Lord 

Stifled    their    love    of    man,  —  "An 

earthen  dish 

The  last  sad  supper  of  the  Master 
bore  : 

Most  miserable  sinners !  do  ye  wish 
More  than  your  Lord,  and  grudge 
his  dying  poor 

What  your  own  pride  and  not  his  need 

requires  ? 

Souls,  than  these  shining  gauds,  He 
values  more ; 

Mercy,   not    sacrifice,   his   heart    de- 
sires ! " 

O   faithful  worthies!    resting  far  be- 
hind 

In  your  dark  ages,  since  ye  fell  asleep, 

Much  has  been    done   for  truth  and 
human-kind,  — 

Shadows   are    scattered    wherein    ye 
groped  blind  ; 

Man  claims  his  birthright,  freer  pulses 
leap 

Through  peoples  driven  in  your  day 
like  sheep ; 

Yet,  like  your  o\vn,  our  age's  sphere  of 
light, 

Though     widening    still,    is    walled 
around  by  night ; 

With  slow,  reluctant  eye,  the  Church 
has  read, 

Sceptic   at   heart,    the  lessons  of  its 
Head  ; 

Counting,  too  oft,  its  living  members 
less 

Than  the  wall's  garnish  and  the  pul- 
pit's dress ; 


iSS 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


World-moving   zeal,    with   power    to 

bless  and  feed 
Life's  fainting  pilgrims,  to  their  utter 

need, 
Instead  of  bread,  holds  out  the  stone 

of  creed ; 
Sect  builds    and    worships  where  its 

wealth  and  pride 

And  vanity  stand  shrined  and  deified, 
Careless  that  in  the  shadow  of  its  walls 
God's  living  temple  into  ruin  falls. 
We  need,  methinks,  the  prophet-hero 

still, 
Saints  true  of  life,  and  martyrs  strong 

of  will, 
To  tread  the  land,  even  now,  as  Xavier 

trod 
The  streets  of  Goa,  barefoot,  with 

his  bell, 
Proclaiming  freedom  in  the  name  of 

God, 
And  startling  tyrants  with  the  fear 

of  hell ! 
Soft  words,  smooth  prophecies,  are 

doubtless  well ; 

But  to  rebuke  the  age's  popular  crime, 
We  need  the  souls  of  fire,  the  hearts 

of  that  old  time! 


THE  PEACE  CONVENTION  AT 
BRUSSELS. 

STILL   in  thy  streets,  O  Paris!  doth 

the  stain 
Of  blood  defy  the  cleansing  autumn 

rain  ; 
Still  breaks  the  smoke  Messina's  ruins 

through, 

And  Naples  mourns    that   new   Bar- 
tholomew, 
When  squalid  beggary,  for  a  dole  of 

bread, 
At   a   crowned    murderer's    beck    of 

license,  fed 
The  yawning  trenches  with  her  noble 

dead ; 
Still,  doomed   Vienna,    through   thy 

stately  halls 


The  shell  goes  crashing  and  the  red 

shot  falls, 
And,  leagued  to  crush    thee,  on  the 

Danube's  side, 

The  bearded  Croat  and  Bosniak  spear- 
man ride ; 
Still  in    that  vale  where    Himalaya's 

snow 
Melts  round  the   cornfields  and   the 

vines  below, 
The    Sikh's    hot   cannon,   answering 

ball  tor  ball, 
Flames  in   the  breach  of  Moultan's 

shattered  wall ; 
On    Chenab's  side  the  vulture  seeks 

the  slain. 
And  Sutlej  paints  with  blood  its  banks 

again. 
"  What  folly,  then,"  the  faithless  critic 

cries, 

With    sneering  lip,  and  wise,  world- 
knowing  eyes, 
"While  fort  to  fort,  and  post  to  post, 

repeat 

The  ceaseless  challenge  of  the  war- 
drum's  beat, 
And    round    the  green    earth,  to  the 

church-bell's  chime, 
The  morning  drum-roll  of  the  camp 

keeps  time, 
To  dream  of  peace  amidst  a  world  in 

arms, 
Of  swords  to  ploughshares  changed  by 

Scriptural  charms, 
Of  nations,  drunken  with  the  wine  of 

blood, 
Staggering   to    take    the    Pledge    of 

Brotherhood, 
Like .    tipplers      answering      Father 

Mathew's  call,  — 
The  sullen  Spaniard,  and  the  mad-cap 

Gaul, 
The  bull-dog  Briton,  yielding  but  with 

life, 
The    Yankee    swaggering    with     his 

bowie-knife, 
The   Russ,   from   banquets  with    the 

vulture  shared, 
The   blood  still   dripping    from    his 

amber  beard, 


THE  PEACE  CONVENTION  AT  BRUSSELS.. 


Quitting  their  mad  Berserker  dance  to 
hear 

The  dull,  meek  droning  of  a  drab-coat 
seer ; 

Leaving  the  sport  of  Presidents  and 
Kings, 

Where  men  for  dice  each  titled  gam- 
bler flings, 

To  meet  alternate  on  the  Seine  and 
Thames, 

For  tea  and  gossip,  like  old  country 
dames! 

No !  let  the  cravens  plead  the  weak- 
ling's cant, 

Let  Cobden  cipher,  and  let  Vincent 
rant, 

Let  Sturge  preach  peace  to  democratic 
throngs, 

And  Burritt,  stammering  through  his 
hundred  tongues, 

Repeat,  in  all,  his  ghostly  lessons 
o'er, 

Timed  to  the  pauses  of  the  battery's 
roar; 

Check  Ban  or  Kaiser  with  the  barri- 
cade 

Of  i  Olive-leaves '  and  Resolutions 
made, 

Spike  guns  with  pointed  Scripture- 
texts,  and  hope 

To  capsize  navies  with  awindy  trope  : 

Still  shall  the  glory  and  the  pomp  of 
War 

Along  their  train  the  shouting  millions 
draw ; 

Still  dusty  Labor  to  the  passing  Brave 

His  cap  shall  doff,  and  Beauty's  ker- 
chief wave ; 

Still  shall  the  bard  to  Valor  tune  his 
song, 

Still  Hero-worship  kneel  before  the 
Strong ; 

Rosy  and  sleek,  the  sable-gowned 
divine, 

O'er  his  third  bottle  of  suggestive 
wine, 

To  plumed  and  sworded  auditors,  shall 
prove 

Their  trade  accordant  with  the  Law 
of  Love ; 


And  Church  for  State,  and  State  for 

Church,  shall  fight, 
And  both  agree,  that  Might  alone  is 

Right!" 

Despite  of  sneers  like  these,  O  faith- 
ful few, 
Who  dare   to    hold  God's  word  and 

witness  true, 
Whose  clear-eyed  faith  transcends  our 

evil  time, 
And  o'er    the  present  wilderness  of 

crime, 
Sees  the  calm  future,  with  its  robes  of 

green, 
Its  fleece-flecked  mountains,  and  soft 

streams  between,  — 
Still  keep  the  path  which  duty  bids  ye 

tread, 
Though    worldly  wisdom    shake   the 

cautious  head ; 
No  truth  from  Heaven  descends  upon 

our  sphere, 
Without  the  greeting  of  the  sceptic's 

sneer ; 

Denied  and  mocked  at,  till  its  bless- 
ings fall, 
Common  as  dew  and  sunshine,  over  all. 

Then,  o'er  Earth's  war-field,  till  the 

strife  shall  cease, 
Like  M erven's  harpers,  sing  your  song 

of  peace ; 
As  in  old  fable  rang  the  Thracian's 

lyre, 
Midst  howl  of  fiends  and  roar  of  penal 

fire, 

Till  the  fierce  din  to  pleasing   mur- 
murs fell, 
And    love    subdued    the    maddened 

heart  of  hell. 
Lend,  once  again,  that  holy  song  a 

tongue, 
Which  the  glad  angels  of  the  Advent 

sung, 
Their  cradle-anthem  for  the  Saviour's 

birth, 
Glory  to    God,  and   peace   unto    the 

earth ! 
Through  the  mad  discord  send  that 

calming  word 


190 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Which  wind  and  wave  on  wild  Genes- 

areth  heard, 
Lift  in  Christ's  name  his  Cross  against 

the  Sword! 
Not  vain  the  vision  which  the  prophets 

saw, 
Skirting  with  green  the  fiery  waste  of 

war, 
Through  the  hot  sand-gleam,  looming 

soft  and  calm 
On  the  sky's  rim,  the  fountain-shading 

palm. 
Still  lives  for  Earth,  which  fiends  so 

long  have  trod, 
The  great  hope  resting  on  the  truth 

of  G0d,  — 
Evil   shall   cease  and  Violence   pass 

away, 
And    the    tired    world    breathe   free 

through  a  long  Sabbath  day. 
\\th  mo.,  1848. 


THE   WISH    OF   TO-DAY. 

I  ASK  not  now  for  gold  to  gild 

With  mocking  shine  a  weary  frame  ; 

The  yearning  of  the  mind  is  stilled, — 
I  ask  not  now  for  Fame. 

A  rose-cloud,  dimly  seen  above, 
Melting    in    heaven's    blue    depths 
away,  — 

O,  sweet,  fond  dream  of  human  Love ! 
For  thee  I  may  not  pray. 

But,  bowed  in  lowliness  of  mind, 

I  make  my  humble  wishes  known,  — 
I  only  ask  a  will  resigned, 

0  Father,  to  thine  own! 

To-day,  beneath  thy  chastening  eye 

1  crave  alone  for  peace  and  rest, 
Submissive  in  thy  hand  to  lie, 

And  feel  that  it  is  best. 

A  marvel  seems  the  Universe, 
A  miracle  our  Life  and  Death ; 

A  mystery  which  I  cannot  pierce, 
Around,  above,  beneath. 


In  vain  I  task  my  aching  brain, 
In  vain  the  sage's  thought  I  scan, 

I  only  feel  how  weak  and  vain, 
How  poor  and  blind,  is  man. 

And  now  my  spirit  sighs  for  home, 
And  longs  for  light  whereby  to  see, 

And,  like  a  weary  child,  would  come, 
O  Father,  unto  thee! 

Though  oft,  like  letters  traced  on  sand, 
My  weak  resolves  have  passed  away, 

In  mercy  lend  thy  helping  hand 
Unto  my  prayer  to-day! 


OUR    STATE. 

THE  South-land  boasts   its   teeming 

cane, 

The  prairied  West  its  heavy  grain, 
And  sunset's  radiant  gates  unfold 
On  rising  marts  and  sands  of  gold! 

Rough,   bleak,   and    hard,   our  little 

State 

Is  scant  of  soil,  of  limits  strait ; 
Her  yellow  sands  are  sands  alone, 
Her  only  mines  are  ice  and  stone! 

From  Autumn  frost  to  April  rain. 
Too  long  her  winter  woods  complain  ; 
From  budding  flower  to  falling  leaf, 
Her  summer  time  is  all  too  brief. 

Yet,  on  her  rocks,  and  on  her  sands, 
And    wintry   hills,    the   school-house 

stands, 

And  what  her  rugged  soil  denies, 
The  harvest  of  the  mind  supplies. 

The  riches  of  the  Commonwealth 
Are  free,  strong  minds,  and  hearts  of 

health  ; 

And  more  to  her  than  gold  or  grain, 
The  cunning  hand  and  cultured  brain. 

For  well  she  keeps  her  ancient  stock, 
The    stubborn    strength    of    Pilgrim 
Rock ; 


TO  A.   K. 


191 


And  still  maintains,  with  milder  laws, 
And    clearer    light,   the    Good    Old 
Cause ! 

Nor  heeds  the  sceptic's  puny  hands, 
While  near  her  school  the  church-spire 

stands ; 

Nor  fears  the  blinded  bigot's  rule, 
While  near  her  church-spire  stands  the 

school. 


ALL'S   WELL. 

THE  clouds,  which  rise  with  thunder, 
slake 

Our  thirsty  souls  with  rain  ; 
The  blow  most  dreaded  falls  to  break 

From  off  our  limbs  a  chain  ; 
And  wrongs  of  man  to  man  but  make 

The  love  of  God  more  plain. 
As  through  the  shadowy  lens  of  even 
The  eye  looks  farthest  into  heaven 
On  gleams  of  star  and  depths  of  blue 
The  glaring  sunshine  never  knew! 


SEED-TIME   AND   HARVEST. 

As  o'er  his  furrowed  fields  which  lie 
Beneath  a  coldly-dropping  sky, 
Yet  chill  with  winter's  melted  snow, 
The  husbandman  goes  forth  to  sow, 

Thus,  Freedom,  on  the  bitter  blast 
The  ventures  of  thy  seed  we  cast, 
And  trust  to  warmer  sun  and  rain 
To  swell  the  germ,  and  fill  the  grain. 

Who  calls  thy  glorious  service  hard? 
Who  deems  it  not  its  own  reward? 
Who,  for  its  trials,  counts  it  less 
A  cause  of  praise  and  thankfulness? 

It  may  not  be  our  lot  to  wield 
The  sickle  in  the  ripened  field ; 
Nor  ours  to  hear,  on  summer  eves, 
The  reaper's  song  among  the  sheaves. 


Yet  where  our  duty's  task  is  wrought 
In  unison  with  God's  great  thought, 
The  near  and  future  blend  in  one, 
And  whatsoe'er  is  willed,  is  done! 

And  ours  the  grateful  service  whence 
Comes,  day  by  day,  the  recompense ; 
The  hope,  the  trust,  the  purpose 

stayed, 
The  fountain  and  the  noonday  shade. 

And  were  this  life  the  utmost  span, 
The  only  end  and  aim  of  man, 
Better  the  toil  of  fields  like  these 
Than  waking  dream  and  slothful  ease. 

But  life,  though  falling  like  our  grain, 
Like  that  revives  and  springs  again ; 
And,  early  called,  how  blest  are  they 
Who  wait  in  heaven  their  harvest-day ! 


TO    A.    K. 

ON     RECEIVING     A     BASKET    OF    SEA- 
MOSSES. 

THANKS  for  thy  gift 
Of  ocean  flowers, 
Born  where  the  golden  drift 
Of  the  slant  sunshine  falls 
Down  the  green,  tremulous  walls 
Of  water,  to  the  cool  still  coral  bovv- 
ers, 
Where,  under  rainbows  of  perpetual 

showers, 

God's  gardens  of  the  deep 
His  patient  angels  keep  ; 
Gladdeningthe  dim,  strange  solitude 
With  fairest  forms  and  hues,  and 

thus 

Forever  teaching  us 
The  lesson  which-  the  many-colored 

skies, 
The  flowers,  and  leaves,  and  painted 

butterflies, 
The  deer's  branched  antlers,  the  gay 

bird  that  flings 

The  tropic  sunshine  from  its  golden 
wings, 


I92 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


The  brightness  of  the  human  counte- 
nance, 

Its  play  of  smiles,  the  magic  of  a  glance, 
Forevermore  repeat, 
In  varied  tones  and  sweet, 
That  beauty,  in  and  of  itself,  is  good. 

O  kind  and  generous    friend,  o'er 

whom 

The  sunset  hues  of  Time  are  cast, 
Painting,  upon  the  overpast 
And  scattered  clouds  of  noonday 

sorrow 

The  promise  of  a  fairer  morrow, 

An  earnest  of  the  better  life  to  come  ; 

The  binding  of  the  spirit  broken, 

The  warning  to  the  erring  spoken, 

The  comfort  of  the  sad, 
The  eye  to  see,  the  hand  to  cull 
Of  common  things  the  beautiful, 

The  absent  heart  made  glad 
By  simple  gift  or  graceful  token 
Of  love  it  needs  as  daily  food, 
All  own  one  Source,  and  all  are 

good! 
Hence,  tracking  sunny  cove  and 

reach, 
Where  spent  waves  glimmer  up 

the  beach, 
And  toss  their  gifts  of  weed  and 

shell 
From  foamy  curve  and  combing 

swell, 

No  unbefitting  task  was  thine 
To  weave  these  flowers  so  soft 

and  fair 
In  unison  with  His  design 

W  ho  loveth  beauty  every  where  ; 
And   makes    in    every  zone  and 

clime, 

In  ocean  and  in  upper  air, 
"  All   things    beautiful    in    their 

time." 
For  not  alone  in  tones  of  awe  and 

power 
He  speaks  to  man  ; 


The  cloudy  horror  of  the  thunder- 
shower 

His  rainbows  span ; 
And  where  the  caravan 
Winds  o'er  the  desert,  leaving,  as  in 

air 
The  crane-flock  leaves,    no   trace   of 

passage  there, 
He  gives  the  weary  eye 
The  palm-leaf  shadow  for  the  hot  noon 

hours, 

And  on  its  branches  dry 
Calls  out  the  acacia's  flowers  ; 
And  where  the  dark  shaft  pierces 

down 

Beneath  the  mountain  roots, 
Seen  by  the  miner's  lamp  alone, 
The  star-like  crystal  shoots  ; 
So,  where,  the  winds  and  waves 

below, 
The      coral-branched      gardens 

grow, 
His  climbing  weeds  and  mosses 

show, 

Like  foliage,  on  each  stony  bough, 
Of  varied  hues   more   strangely 

gay 

Than  forest  leaves  in   autumn's 

day;- 

Thus  evermore, 
On  sky,  and  wave,  and  shore, 
An  all-pervading  beauty  seems  to 

say : 
God's  love  and   power  are  one ; 

and  they, 
Who,  like  the  thunder  of  a  sultry 

day. 

Smite  to  restore, 
And  they,  who,  like  the  gentle  wind, 

uplift 
The  petals  of  the  dew-wet  flowers,  and 

drift 

Their  perfume  on  the  air, 
Alike  may  serve  Him,  each,  with  their 

own  gift, 
Making  their  lives  a  prayer! 


THE  CHAPEL   OF  THE   HERMITS. 


193 


THE   CHAPEL   OF   THE    HERMITS,   AND    OTHER 
POEMS,    1852. 


"  I  DO  believe,  and  yet,  in  grief, 
I  pray  for  help  to  unbelief; 
For  needful  strength  aside  to  lay 
The  daily  cumberings  of  my  way. 

"  1 'm  sick  at  heart  of  craft  and  cant, 
Sick  of  the  crazed  enthusiast's  rant, 
Profession's  smooth  hypocrisies, 

And  creeds  of  iron,  and  lives  of  ease. 

• 

"  I  ponder  o'er  the  sacred  word, 
I  read  the  record  of  our  Lord  ; 
And,  weak  and  troubled,  envy  them 
Who  touched  his  seamless  garment's 
hem ;  — 

"  Who  saw  the  tears  of  love  he  wept 
Above  the  grave  where  Lazarus  slept ; 
And  heard,  amidst  the  shadows  dim 
Of  Olivet,  his  evening  hymn. 

"  How  blessed  the   swineherd's   low 

estate, 

The  beggar  crouching  at  the  gate, 
The  leper  loathly  and  abhorred, 
Whose  eyes  of  flesh  beheld  the  Lord ! 

"  O  sacred  soil  his  sandals  pressed ! 
Sweet  fountains  of  his  noonday  rest! 
O  light  and  air  of  Palestine, 
Impregnate  with  his  life  divine! 

"  O,  bear  me  thither!     Let  me  look 
On  Siloa's  pool,  and  Kedron's  brook, — 
Kneel  at  Gethsemane,  and  by 
Genesaret  walk,  before  I  die ! 

"Methinks   this    cold   and   northern 

night 

Would  melt  before  that  Orient  light ; 
And,  wet  by  Hermon's  dew  and  rain, 
My  childhood's  faith  revive  again ! " 


So  spake  my  friend,  one  autumn  day, 
Where  the  still  river  slid  away 
Beneath  us,  and  above  the  brown 
Red  curtains  of  the  woods  shut  down. 

Then  said  I,  —  for  I  could  not  brook 
The  mute  appealing  of  his  look,— 
*•  I,  too,  am  weak,  and  faith  is  small, 
And  blindness  happeneth  unto  all. 

"•  Yet,   sometimes    glimpses    on    my 

sight, 
Through  present  wrong,  the  eternal 

right ; 

And,  step  by  step,  since  time  began, 
I  see  the  steady  gain  of  man  ; 

"  That  all  of  good  the  past  hath  had' 
Remains  to  make  our  owntimeglad,— 
Our  common  daily  life  divine, 
And  every  land  a  Palestine. 

"  Thou  weariest  of  thy  present  state ; 
What  gain  to  thee  time's  holiest  date? 
The  doubter  now  perchance  had  been 
As  High  Priest  or  as  Pilate  then! 

"What  thought    Chorazin's  scribes? 

What  faith 

In  Him  had  Nain  and  Nazareth? 
Of  the  few  followers  whom  He  led 
One  sold  him,  —  all  forsook  and  fled. 

li  O    friend !  we   need    nor    rock   nor 

sand, 

Nor  storied  stream  of  Morning-Land  ; 
The  heavens  are  glassed  in  Merri- 

mack,  — 
What  more  could  Jordan  render  back  ? 

"  We  lack  but  open  eye  and  ear 

To  find  the  Orient's  marvels  here ;  — 


194 


THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE   HERMITS. 


The   still    small    voice    in    autumn's 

hush, 
Yon  maple  wood  the  burning  bush. 

"For   still    the    new    transcends    the 

old, 

In  signs  and  tokens  manifold  ;  — 
Slaves  rise  up  men ;  the  olive  waves, 
With  roots  deep  set  in  battle  graves! 

"  Through  the  harsh  noises  of  our  day 
A  low,  sweet  prelude  finds  its  way ; 
Through  clouds  of  doubt,  and  creeds 

of  fear, 
A  light  is  breaking,  calm  and  clear. 

"  That  song  of   Love,  now  low  and 

far, 

Erelong  shall  swell  from  star  to  star! 
That  light,  the  breaking  day,  which 

tips 
The  golden-spired  Apocalypse! " 

Then,  when    my  good   friend  shook 

his  head, 

And,  sighing,  sadly  smiled,  I  said : 
"  Thou  mind'st  me  of  a  story  told 
In  rare  Bernardin's  leaves  of  gold." 

And  while  the  slanted  sunbeams  wove 
The    shadows    of    the    frost-stained 

grove, 

And,  picturing  all,  the  river  ran 
O'er  cloud  and  wood,  I  thus  began  : 


In  Mount  Valerien's  chestnut  wood 
The  Chapel  of  the  Hermits  stood  ; 
And  thither,  at  the  close  of  day. 
Came    two   old    pilgrims,   worn   and 
gray. 

One,  whose  impetuous  youth  defied 
The  storms  of  Baikal's  wintry  side, 
And  mused  and  dreamed  where  tropic 

day 
Flamed  o'er  his  lost  Virginia's  bay. 

His  simple  tale  of  love  and  woe 

All  hearts  had  melted,  high  or  low  ;  — 


A  blissful  pain,  a  sweet  distress. 
Immortal  in  its  tenderness. 

Yet,  while  above  his  charmed  page 
Beat  quick  the  young  heart  of  his  age, 
He  walked  amidst  the  crowd  unknown, 
A   sorrowing   old    man,  strange   and 
lone. 

A  homeless,  troubled  age,  —  the  gray 
Pale  setting  of  a  weary  day  ; 
Too  dull  his  ear  for  voice  of  praise, 
Too  sadly  worn  his  brow  for  bays. 

Pride,  lust  of  power  and  glory,  slept ; 
Yet  still  his  heart  its  young  .dream 

kept. 

And,  wandering  like  the  deluge-dove, 
Still  sought  the  resting-place  of  love. 

And,  mateless,  childless,  envied  more 
The  peasant's  welcome  from  his  door 
By  smiling  eyes  at  eventide, 
Than  kingly  gifts  or  lettered  pride. 

Until,  in  place  of  wife  and  child, 
All-pitying  Nature  on  him  smiled, 
And  gave  to  him  the  golden  keys 
To  all  her  inmost  sanctities. 

Mild  Druid  of  her  wood-paths  dim! 
She  laid  her  great  heart  bare  to  him, 
Its  loves  and  sweet  accords  ;  —  he  saw 
The  beauty  of  her  perfect  law. 

The  language  of  her  signs  he  knew, 
What  notes  her  cloudy  clarion  blew ; 
The  rhythm  of  autumn's  forest  dyes, 
The  hymn  of  sunset's  painted  skies. 

And  thus  he  seemed  to  hear  the  song 
Which  swept,  of  old,  the  stars  along ; 
And  to  his  eyes  the  earth  once  more 
Its  fresh  and  primal  beauty  wore. 

Who  sought  with  him,  from  summer 

air, 

And  field  and  wood,  a  balm  for  care ; 
And  bathed  in  light  of  sunset  skies 
His  tortured  nerves  and  weary  eyes? 


THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE   HERMITS. 


195 


His  fame  on  all  the  winds  had  flown ; 
His  words  had  shaken  crypt  and 

throne  ; 

Like  fire,  on  camp  and  court  and  cell 
They  dropped,  and  kindled  as  they 

fell. 

Beneath  the  pomps  of  state,  below 
The    mitred    juggler's    masque    and 

show, 

A  prophecy  —  a  vague  hope  —  ran 
His  burning  thought  from  man  to  man. 

For  peace  or  rest  too  well  he  saw 
The  fraud  of  priests,    the  wrong   of 

law; 

And  felt  how  hard,  between  the  two, 
Their  breath  of  pain  the  millions 

drew. 

A  prophet-utterance,  strong  and  wild, 
The  weakness  of  an  unweaned  child, 
A  sun-bright  hope  for  human-kind, 
And  self-despair,  in  him  combined. 

He  loathed  the  false,  yet  lived  not  true 
To  half  the  glorious  truths  he  knew ; 
The  doubt,  the  discord,  and  the  sin, 
He  mourned  without,  he  felt  within. 

Untrod  by  him  the  path  he  showed, 
Sweet  pictures  on  his  easel  glowed 
Of  simple  faith,  and  loves  of  home, 
And  virtue's  golden  days  to  come. 

But  weakness,  shame,  and  folly  made 
The  foil  to  all  his  pen  portrayed ; 
Still,    where    his    dreamy    splendors 

shone, 
The  shadow  of  himself  was  thrown. 

Lord,  what  is  man,  whose  thought,  at 

times, 

Up  to  thy  sevenfold  brightness  climbs, 
While  still  his  grosser  instinct  clings 
To  earth,  like  other  creeping  things! 

So  rich  in  words,  in  acts  so  mean ; 
So     high,     so     low ;     chance-swung 
between 


The  foulness  of  the  penal  pit 

And  Truth's  clear  sky,  millennium-lit! 

Vain  pride  of  star-lent  genius  !  —  vain 
Quick  fancy  and  creative  brain, 
Unblest  by  prayerful  sacrifice, 
Absurdly  great,  or  weakly  wise ! 

Midst  yearnings  for  a  truer  life, 
Without  were  fears,  within  was  strife  ; 
And  still  his  wayward  act  denied 
The  perfect  good  for  which  he  sighed. 

The  love  he  sent  forth  void  returned ; 
The  fame  that  crowned  him  scorched 

and  burned, 
Burning,    yet    cold    and    drear    and 

lone,  — 
A  fire-mount  in  a  frozen  zone! 

Like   that    the    gray-haired    sea-king 

passed, 

Seen  southward  from  his  sleety  mast, 
About  whose  brows  of  changeless 

frost 
A  wreath    of  flame  the   wild   winds 

tossed. 

Far  round  the  mournful  beauty  played 
Of  lambent  light  and  purple  shade. 
Lost  on  the  fixed  and  dumb  despair 
Of  frozen  earth  and  sea  and  air ! 

A  man  apart,  unknown,  unloved 

By  those  whose  wrongs  his  soul  had 

moved, 

He  bore  the  ban  of  Church  and  State, 
The  good  man's  fear,  the  bigot's  hate ! 

Forth  from  the  city's  noise  and  throng, 
Its  pomp  and  shame,  its  sin  and  wrong, 
The  twain  that  summer  day  had  strayed 
To  Mount  Valerien's  chestnut  shade. 

To  them    the   green    fields    and   the 

wood 

Lent  something  of  their  quietude, 
And  golden-tinted  sunset  seemed 
Prophetical  of  all  they  dreamed. 


196 


THE  CHAPEL   OF  THE   HERMITS. 


The  hermits  from  their  simple  cares 
The  bell  was  calling  home  to  prayers, 
And,  listening  to  its  sound,  the  twain 
Seemed  lapped   in   childhood's  trust 
again. 

Wide  open  stood  the  chapel  door ; 
A  sweet  old  music,  swelling  o'er 
Low      prayerful      murmurs,      issued 

thence,  — 
The  Litanies  of  Providence ! 

Then  Rousseau  spake  :  "  Where  two 

or  three 

In  His  name  meet,  He  there  will  be!  " 
And  then,  in  silence,  on  their  knees 
They  sank  beneath  the  chestnut-trees. 

As  to  the  blind  returning  light, 
As  daybreak  to  the  Arctic  night, 
Old  faith  revived  :  the  doubts  of  years 
Dissolved  in  reverential  tears. 

That  gush  of  feeling  overpast, 
"  Ah  me !  "  Bernardin  sighed  at  last, 
"  I  would  thy  bitterest  foes  could  see 
Thy  heart  as  it  is  seen  of  me ! 

"  No  church  of  God  hast  thou  denied  ; 
Thou  hast  but  spurned  in  scorn  aside 
A  base  and  hollow  counterfeit, 
Profaning  the  pure  name  of  it ! 

"  With    dry   dead   moss  and   marish 

weeds 

His  fire  the  western  herdsman  feeds, 
And  greener  from  the  ashen  plain 
The  sweet  spring  grasses  rise  again. 

"  Nor  thunder-peal  nor  mighty  wind 

Disturb  the  solid  sky  behind  ; 

And  through  the  cloud  the  red  bolt 

rends 
The    calm,    still    smile    of    Heaven 

descends ! 

"Thus  through  the  world,  like  bolt 

and  blast, 
And  scourging  fire,  thy  words  have 

passed. 


Clouds  break,  —  the  steadfast  heavens 

remain ; 
Weeds    burn,  —  the   ashes    feed    the 

grain ! 

"  But  whoso  strives  with  wrong  may 

find 

Its  touch  pollute,  its  darkness  blind  ; 
And  learn,  as  latent  fraud  is  shown 
In  others1  faith,  to  doubt  his  own. 

"  With  dream  and  falsehood,  simple 

trust 

And  pious  hope  we  tread  in  dust ; 
Lost  the  calm  faith  in  goodness,  — 

lost 
The  baptism  of  the  Pentecost! 

"Alas!  —  the  blows  for  error  meant 

Too  oft  on  truth  itself  are  spent, 

As   through   the  false   and   vile  and 

base 
Looks  forth  her  sad,  rebuking  face. 

"  Not  ours  the  Theban's  charmed  life  ; 
We  come  not  scathless  from  the  strife! 
The  Python's  coil  about  us  clings. 
The  trampled  Hydra  bites  and  stings! 

"  Meanwhile,    the   sport   of   seeming 

chance, 

The  plastic  shapes  of  circumstance, 
What   might    have   been   we   fondly 

guess, 
If  earlier  born,  or  tempted  less. 

"  And  thou,  in  these  wild,  troubled 

days, 

Misjudged  alike  in  blame  and  praise, 
Unsought  and  undeserved  the  same 
The     sceptic's     praise,    the     bigot's 

blame ;  — 

"  I  cannot  doubt,  if  thou  hadst  been 
Among  the  highly  favored  men 
Who  walked  on  earth  with  Fenelon, 
He   would   have  owned  thee  as  his 
son; 


THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE   HERMITS. 


197 


"  And,  bright  with  wings  of  cherubim 

Visibly  waving  over  him. 

Seen  through  his  life,  the  Church  had 

seemed 
All  that  its  old  confessors  dreamed. 

"  I   would   have  been,"  Jean  Jaques 

replied, 

"  The  humblest  servant  at  his  side, 
Obscure,  unknown,  content  to  see 
How  beautiful  man's  life  may  be! 

"  O,  more  than  thrice-blest  relic,  more 
Than  solemn  rite  or  sacred  lore, 
The  holy  life  of  one  who  trod 
The  foot-marks  of  the  Christ  of  God ! 

"  Amidst  a  blinded  world  he  saw 

The  oneness  of  the  Dual  law ; 

That  Heaven's  sweet  peace  on  Earth 

began, 
And  God  was  loved  through  love  of 


"  He  lived  the  Truth  which  reconciled 
The  strong  man  Reason,  Faith  the 

child:  ' 

In  him  belief  and  act  were  one, 
The  homilies  of  duty  done!  " 

So   speaking,   through    the    twilight 

gray 

The  two  old  pilgrims  went  their  way. 
What  seeds  of  life  that  day  were  sown, 
The  heavenly  watchers  knew  alone. 

Time  passed,  and  Autumn  came  to 
fold 

Green  Summer  in  her  brown  and  gold  ; 

Time  passed,  and  Winter's  tears  of 
snow 

Dropped  on  the  grave-mound  of  Rous- 
seau. 

"  The  tree  remaineth  where  it  fell. 
The  pained  on  earth  is  pained  in  hell !  " 
So  priestcraft  from  its  altars  cursed 
The    mournful    doubts   its   falsehood 
nursed. 


Ah !  well  of  old  the  Psalmist  prayed, 
"  Thy  hand,  not   man's,  on    me    be 

laid!11 
Earth  frowns   below,  Heaven  weeps 

above, 
And  man  is  hate,  but  God  is  love ! 

No  Hermits  now  the  wanderer  sees, 
Nor  chapel  with  its  chestnut-trees ; 
A  morning  dream,  a  tale  that 's  told, 
The  wave  of  change  o'er  all  has  rolled. 

Yet  lives  the  lesson  of  that  day ; 
And  from  its  twilight  cool  and  gray 
Comes  up  a  low,  sad  whisper,  u  Make 
The  truth  thine  own,  for  truth's  own 
sake. 

"  Why  wait  to  see  in  thy  brief  span 
Its  perfect  flower  and  fruit  in  man  ? 
No  saintly  touch  can  save  ;  no  balm 
Of  healing  hath  the  martyr's  palm. 

"  Midst  soulless  forms,  and  false  pre- 
tence 

Of  spiritual  pride  and  pampered 
sense, 

A  voice  saith,  *  What  is  that  to  thee? 

Be  true  thyself,  and  follow  Me ! ' 

"  In    days    when    throne    and    altar 

heard 

The  wanton's  wish,  the  bigot's  word, 
And  pomp  of  state  and  ritual  show 
Scarce  hid  the  loathsome  death  be- 
low, — 

"  Midst  fawning  priests  and  courtiers 

foul, 

The  losel  swarm  of  crown  and  cowl. 
White-robed  walked  Fran9ois  Fene- 

lon, 
Stainless  as  Uriel  in  the  sun ! 

"  Yet   in   his    time   the  stake  blazed 

red, 

The  poor  were  eaten  up  like  bread ; 
Men   knew  him   not :    his   garment's 

hem 
No  healing  virtue  had  for  them. 


198 


THE  CHAPEL   OF  THE   HERMITS. 


"  Alas !  no  present  saint  we  find  ; 
The  white  cymar  gleams  far  behind, 
Revealed  in  outline  vague,  sublime, 
Through  telescopic  mists  of  time! 

"Trust    not    in    man    with    passing 

breath, 

But  in  the  Lord,  old  Scripture  saith  ; 
The  truth  which  saves  thou  mayst  not 

blend 
With  false  professor,  faithless  friend. 

"  Search    thine    own    heart.      What 

paineth  thee 

In  others  in  thyself  may  be  ; 
All  dust  is  frail,  all  flesh  is  weak  ; 
Be  thou  the  true  man  thou  dost  seek! 

"  Where  now  with  pain  thou  treadest, 

trod 

The  whitest  of  the  saints  of  God ! 
To  show  thee  where  their  feet  were 

set, 
The  light  which  led  themshineth  yet. 

"  The  footprints  of  the  life  divine, 
Which  marked  their  path,  remain  in 

thine ; 
And   that   great    Life,   transfused   in 

theirs, 
Awaits     thy    faith,     thy    love,     thy 

prayers ! " 

A  lesson  which  I  well  may  heed, 
A  word  of  fitness  to  my  need ; 
So  from  that  twilight  cool  and  gray 
Still  saith  a  voice,  or  seems  to  say. 


We     rose,    and     slowly    homeward 
turned, 


While    down    the    west    the    sunset 

burned ; 
And,    in   its    light,    hill,    wood,    and 

tide, 
And  human  forms  seemed  glorified. 

The      village      homes      transfigured 

stood, 
And     purple    bluffs,    whose    belting 

wood 

Across  the  waters  leaned  to  hold 
The  yellow  leaves  like  lamps  of  gold. 

Then  spake  my  friend :  "Thy  words 

are  true ; 

P^orever  old,  forever  new, 
These  home-seen  splendors   are   the 

same 
Which  over  Eden's  sunsets  came. 


"  To  these  bowed  heavens  let  wood 

and  hill 

Lift  voiceless  praise  and  anthem  still ; 
Fall,  warm  with  blessing,  over  them, 
Light  of  the  New  Jerusalem! 


"  Flow  on,  sweet  river,  like  the  stream 
Of  John's  Apocalyptic  dream ! 
This  mapled  ridge  shall  Horeb  be, 
Yon  green-banked  lake  our  Galilee! 


"  Henceforth  my  heart  shall  sigh  no 

more 

For  olden  time  and  holier  shore  ; 
God's  love   and   blessing,    then  and 

there, 
Are  now  and  here  and  everywhere." 


QUESTIONS   OF   LIFE. 


199 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


QUESTIONS   OF   LIFE. 

A.id  the  angel  that  was  sent  unto  me, 
whose  name  was  Uriel,  gave  me  an  answer, 
and  said, 

"Thy  heart  hath  gone  too  far  in  this 
world,  and  thinkest  thou  to  comprehend  the 
way  of  the  Most  High  ?  " 

Then  said  I,  "  Yea,  my  Lord." 

Then  said  he  unto  me,  "  Go  thy  way, 
weigh  me  the  weight  of  the  fire,  or  measure 
me  the  blast  of  the  wind,  or  call  me  again 
the  day  that  is  past."  —  2  Esdras,  chap.  iv. 

A  BENDING  staff  I  would  not  break, 
A  feeble  faith  I  would  not  shake, 
Nor  even  rashly  pluck  away 
The  error  which  some  truth  may  stay, 
Whose  loss  might  leave  the  soul  with- 
out 
A  shield  against  the  shafts  of  doubt. 

And  yet,  at  times,  when  over  all 
A  darker  mystery  seems  to  fall, 
(May  God  forgive  the  child  of  dust, 
Who    seeks    to   know,    where    Faith 

should  trust !  ) 

I  raise  the  questions,  old  and  dark, 
Of  Uzdom's  tempted  patriarch, 
And,  speech-confounded,  build  again 
The  baffled  tower  of  Shinar's  plain. 

I  am  :  how  little  more  I  know! 
Whence  came  I?     Whither  do  I  go? 
A  centred  self,  which  feels  and  is  ; 
A  cry  between  the  silences  ; 
A  shadow-birth  of  clouds  at  strife 
With  sunshine  on  the  hills  of  life ; 
A  shaft  from  Nature's  quiver  cast 
Into  the  Future  from  the  Past ; 
Between  the  cradle  and  the  shroud, 
A  meteor's  flight  from  cloud  to  cloud. 

Thorough  the  vastness,  arching  all, 
I  see  the  great  stars  rise  and  fall, 
The  rounding  seasons  come  and  go. 
The  tided  oceans  ebb  and  flow  ; 


The  tokens  of  a  central  force. 
Whose     circles,    in    their    widening 

course, 

O'erlap  and  move  the  universe  ; 
The   workings    of   the    law   whence 

springs 

The  rhythmic  harmony  of  things, 
Which  shapes  in  earth  the  darkling 

spar, 

And  orbs  in  heaven  the  morning  star. 
Of  all  I  see,  in  earth  and  sky,  — 
Star,  flower,  beast,  bird, — what  part 

have  I? 

This  conscious  life,  —  is  it  the  same 
Which  thrills  the  universal  frame, 
Whereby  the  caverned  crystal  shoots, 
And    mounts    the     sap    from    forest 

roots, 

Whereby  the  exiled  wood-bird  tells 
When  Spring  makes  green  her  native 

dells? 

How  feels  the  stone  the  pang  of  birth, 
Which    brings    its    sparkling    prism 

forth  ? 

The  forest-tree  the  throb  which  gives 
The  life-blood  to  its  new-born  leaves  ? 
Do  bird  and  blossom  feel,  like  me, 
Life's  many-folded  mystery,  — 
The  wonder  which  it  is  TO  BE? 
Or  stand  I  severed  and  distinct, 
From  Nature's  chain  of  life  unlinked? 
Allied  to  all,  yet  not  the  less 
Prisoned  in  separate  consciousness, 
Alone  o'erburdened  with  a  sense 
Of  life,  and  cause,  and  consequence? 

In  vain  to  me  the  Sphinx  propounds 
The  riddle  of  her  sights  and  sounds  ; 
Back  still  the  vaulted  mystery  gives 
The  echoed  question  it  receives. 
What  sings  the  brook?     What  oracle 
Is  in  the  pine-tree's  organ  swell? 
What  may  the  wind's  low  burden  be? 
The  meaning  of  the  moaning  sea? 
The  hieroglyphics  of  the  stars? 
Or  clouded  sunset's  crimson  bars? 


200 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


I  vainly  ask,  for  mocks  my  skill 
The  trick  of  Nature's  cipher  still. 

I  turn  from  Nature  unto  men, 
I  ask  the  stylus  and  the  pen ; 
What  sang  the  bards  of  old  ?  What 

meant 

The  prophets  of  the  Orient? 
The  rolls  of  buried  Egypt,  hid 
In  painted  tomb  and  pyramid? 
What  mean  Idiimea's  arrowy  lines, 
Or-dusk  Elora's  monstrous  signs  ? 
How   speaks   the  primal  thought   of 

man 

From  the  grim  carvings  of  Copan? 
Where  rests  the  secret?     Where  the 

keys 

Of  the  old  death-bolted  mysteries  ? 
Alas!  the  dead  retain  their  trust ; 
Dust  hath  no  answer  from  the  dust. 

The  great  enigma  still  unguessed, 

Unanswered  the  eternal  quest ; 

I  gather  up  the  scattered  rays 

Of  wisdom  in  the  early  days, 

Faint  gleams   and   broken,   like  the 

light 

Of  meteors  in  a  northern  night, 
Betraying  to  the  darkling  earth 
The  unseen  sun  which  gave  them 

birth ; 

I  listen  to  the  sibyl's  chant, 
The  voice  of  priest  and  hierophant ; 
I  know  what  Indian  Kreeshna  saith, 
And  what  of  life  and  what  of  death 
The  demon  taught  to  Socrates  ; 
And  what,  beneath  his  garden-trees 
Slow  pacing,  with  a  dream-like  tread, 
The  solemn-thoughted  Plato  said ; 
Nor  lack  1  tokens,  great  or  small, 
Of  God's  clear  light  in  each  and  all, 
While  holding  with  more  dear  regard 
The  scroll  of  Hebrew  seer  and  bard, 
The  starry  pages  promise-lit 
With  Christ's  Evangel  over-writ, 
Thy  miracle  of  life  and  death, 
O  holy  one  of  Nazareth ! 

On  Aztec  ruins,  gray  and  lone, 

The  circling  serpent  coils  in  stone, — 


Type  of  the  endless  and  unknown  ; 
Whereof  we  seek  the  clew  to  find, 
With  groping  fingers  of  the  blind ! 
Forever  sought,  and  never  found, 
We  trace  that  serpent-symbol  round 
Our  resting-place,  our  starting  bound ! 
O  thriftless  ness  of  dream  and  guess! 

0  wisdom  which  is  foolishness! 
Why  idly  seek  from  outward  things 
The  answer  inward  silence  brings  ; 
Why  stretch  beyond  our  proper  sphere 
And  age,  for  that  which  lies  so  near? 
Why  climb  the  far-off  hills  with  pain, 
A  nearer  view  of  heaven  to  gain? 

In  lowliest  depths  of  bosky  dells 
The  hermit  Contemplation  dwells. 
A  fountain's  pine-hung  slope  his  seat, 
And  lotus-twined  his  silent  feet, 
Whence,      piercing      heaven,      with 

screened  sight, 
He   sees   at   noon   the   stars,   whose 

light  _ 
Shall  glorify  the  coming  night. 

Here  let  me  pause,  my  quest  forego ; 
Enough  for  me  to  feel  and  know 
That  he  in  whom  the  cause  and  end, 
The  past  and  future,  meet  and  blend, — • 
Who,  girt  with  his  immensities, 
Our  vast  and  star-hung  system  sees, 
Small  as  the  clustered  Pleiades,  — 
Moves  not  alone  the  heavenly  quires, 
But   waves    the   spring-time's  grassy 

spires, 

Guards  not  archangel  feet  alone, 
But  deigns  to  guide  and  keep  my  own  ; 
Speaks  not  alone  the  words  of  fate 
Which   worlds    destroy,    and    worlds 

create, 

But  whispers  in  my  spirit's  ear, 
In  tones  of  love,  or  warning  fear, 
A  language  none  beside  may  hear. 

To  Him,  from  wanderings  long  and 
wild, 

1  come,  an  over-wearied  child, 

In  cool  and  shade  his  peace  to  find, 
Like  dew-fall  settling  on  my  mind. 
Assured  that  all  I  know  is  best, 
And  humbly  trusting  for  the  rest, 


THE   PRISONERS  OF  NAPLES. 


201 


I     turn     from     Fancy's     cloud-built 

scheme, 
Dark    creed,   and    mournful    eastern 

dream 

Of  power,  impersonal  and  cold, 
Controlling  all,  itself  controlled, 
Maker  and  slave  of  iron  laws, 
Alike  the  subject  and  the  cause ; 
From  vain  philosophies,  that  try 
The  sevenfold  gates  of  mystery, 
And,  baffled  ever,  babble  still, 
Word-prodigal  of  fate  and  will ; 
From  Nature,  and  her  mockery,  Art, 
And  book  and  speech  of  men  apart, 
To  the  still  witness  in  my  heart  ; 
With  reverence  waiting  to  behold 
His  Avatar  of  love  untold, 
The  Eternal  Beauty  new  and  old! 


THE  PRISONERS  OF   NAPLES. 

I  HAVE  been  thinking  of  the  victims 

bound 

In  Naples,  dying  for  the  lack  of  air 
And   sunshine,  in   their  close,  damp 

cells  of  pain, 
Where  hope  is  not,  and  innocence  in 

vain 
Appeals  against  the  torture  and  the 

chain ! 
Unfortunates !  whose  crime  it  was  to 

share 
Our  common  love  of  freedom,  and  to 

dare, 

In   its   behalf,  Rome's   harlot  triple- 
crowned, 

And  her  base  pander,  the  most  hate- 
ful thing 
Who   upon   Christian   or   on    Pagan 

ground 
Makes  vile  the   old   heroic   name  of 

king. 
O   God   most  merciful!     Father  just 

and  kind! 
Whom  man  hath  bound  let  thy  right 

hand  unbind. 

Or,  if  thy  purposes  of  good  behind 
Their  ills  lie  hidden,  let  the  sufferers 

find 


Strong  consolation ;  leave  them  not 
to  doubt 

Thy  providential  care,  nor  yet  with- 
out 

The  hope  which  all  thy  attributes 
inspire, 

That  not  in  vain  the  martyr's  robe  of 
fire 

Is  worn,  nor  the  sad  prisoner's  fret- 
ting chain ; 

Since  all  who  suffer  for  thy  truth  send 
forth, 

Electrical,  with  every  throb  of  pain, 

Unquenchable  sparks,  thy  own  bap- 
tismal rain 

Of  fire  and  spirit  over  all  the  earth. 

Making  the  dead  in  slavery  live 
again. 

Let  this  great  hope  be  with  them,  as 
they  lie 

Shut  from  the  light,  the  greenness, 
and  the  sky,  — 

From  the  cool  waters  and  the  pleas- 
ant breeze, 

The  smell  of  flowers,  and  shade  of 
summer  trees ; 

Bound  with  the  felon  lepers,  whom 
disease 

And  sins  abhorred  make  loathsome  ; 
let  them  share 

Pellico's  faith,  Foresti's  strength  to 
bear 

Years  of  unutterable  torment,  stern 
and  still, 

As  the  chained  Titan  victor  through 
his  will ! 

Comfort  them  with  thy  future;  let 
them  see 

The  day-dawn  of  Italian  liberty  ; 

For  that,  with  all  good  things,  is  hid 
with  Thee, 

And,  perfect  in  thy  thought,  awaits 
its  time  to  be! 

I,  who   have  spoken  for  freedom  at 

the  cost 
Of  some  weak   friendships,   or  some 

paltry  prize 
Of  name  or  place,  and  more  than  I 

have  lost 


202 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Have  gained  in  wider  reach  of  sym- 
pathies, 
And  free  communion  with  the  good 

and  wise,  — 
May  God   forbid  that  I  should  ever 

boast 

Such  easy  self-denial,  or  repine 
That  the  strong   pulse  of  health  no 

more  is  mine ; 
That,  overworn  at    noonday,  I  must 

yield 
To  other  hands  the  gleaning  of  the 

>  field,  - 
A  tired  on-looker  through  the  day's 

decline. 
For  blest  beyond  deserving  still,  and 

knowing 
That  kindly    Providence   its   care   is 

showing 

In  the  withdrawal  as  in  the  bestowing, 
Scarcely  I    dare  for  more  or  less  to 

pray. 

Beautiful  yet  for  me  this  autumn  day 
Melts    on   its   sunset   hills;  and,  far 

away, 
For   me   the   Ocean   lifts  its  solemn 

psalm, 
To  me  the  pine-woods  whisper ;  and 

for  me 
Yon  river,  winding  through  its  vales 

of  calm, 

By  greenest  banks,  with  asters  purple- 
starred, 
And  gentian   bloom  and   golden-rod 

made  gay, 
Flows  down  in  silent  gladness  to  the 

sea, 
Like  a  pure  spirit  to  its  great  reward ! 

Nor   lack    I   friends,    long-tried    and 

near  and  dear, 
Whose   love   is   round   me   like  this 

atmosphere, 
Warm,  soft,  and   golden.     For  such 

gifts  to  me 
What   shall  I  render,  O  my  God,  to 

thee? 

Let  me  not  dwell  upon  my  lighter  share 
Of  pain  and  ill  that  human  life  must 

bear; 


Save  me  from  selfish  pining ;  let  my 

heart, 

Drawn  from  itself  in  sympathy,  forget 
The  bitter  longings  of  a  vain  regret, 
The  anguish  of  its  own  peculiar  smart. 
Remembering  others,  as  I  have  to-day, 
In  their  great  sorrows,  let  me  live  alway 
Not  for  myself  alone,  but  have  a  part, 
Such  as  a  frail  and  erring  spirit  may, 
In  love  which  is  of  Thee,  and  which 

indeed  Thou  art! 


MOLOCH    IN    STATE    STREET. 

THE  moon  has  set :    while   yet   the 
dawn 

Breaks  cold  and  gray, 
Between  the  midnight  and  the  morn 

Bear  off  your  prey ! 

On,  swift  and   still! — the  conscious 
street 

Is  panged  and  stirred  ; 
Tread  light !  —  that  fall  of  serried  feet 

The  dead  have  heard ! 

The  first  drawn  blood  of  Freedom's 

veins 

Gushed  where  ye  tread  ; 
Lo!    through    the    dusk   the    martyr- 
stains 
Blush  darkly  red ! 

Beneath  the  slowly  waning  stars 

And  whitening  day, 
What  stern  and  awful  presence  bars 

That  sacred  way  ? 

What  faces  frown  upon  ye,  dark 

With  shame  and  pain? 
Come  these  from  Plymouth's  Pilgrim 
bark? 

Is  that  young  Vane? 

Who,  dimly  beckoning,  speed  ye  on 

With  mocking  cheer? 
Lo!  spectral  Andros,  Hutchinson, 

And  Gage  are  here! 


THE   PEACE  OF   EUROPE. 


203 


For  ready  mart  or  favoring  blast 

Through  Moloch's  fire 
Flesh  of  his  flesh,  unsparing,  passed 

The  Tyrian  sire. 

Ye  make  that  ancient  sacrifice 

Of  Man  to  Gain, 

Your  traffic  thrives,  where  Freedom 
dies, 

Beneath  the  chain. 

Ye  sow  to-day,  your  harvest,  scorn 

And  hate,  is  near ; 
How  think  ye  freemen,  mountain-born, 

The  tale  will  hear? 

Thank  God!  our  mother  State  can  yet 

Her  fame  retrieve ; 
To  you  and  to  your  children  let 

The  scandal  cleave. 

Chain    Hall   and   Pulpit,    Court    and 

Press, 

Make  gods  of  gold ; 
Let  honor,  truth,  and  manliness 
Like  wares  be  sold. 

Your  hoards  are  great,  your  walls  are 
strong. 

But  God  is  just ; 
The  gilded  chambers  built  by  wrong 

Invite  the  rust. 

What !  know  ye  not  the  gains  of  Crime 

Are  dust  and  dross  ; 
Its  ventures  on  the  waves  of  time 

Foredoomed  to  loss ! 

And  still  the  Pilgrim  State  remains 

What  she  hath  been  ; 
Her  inland  hills,  her  seaward  plains, 

Still  nurture  men! 

Nor  wholly  lost  the  fallen  mart,  — 

Her  olden  blood 

Through  many  a  free  and  generous 
heart 

Still  pours  its  flood. 


That  brave  old  blood,  quick-flowing 
yet, 

Shall  know  no  check, 
Till  a  free  people's  foot  is  set 

On  Slavery's  neck. 

Even  now,  the  peel  of  bell  and  gun, 

And  hills  aflame, 
Tell  of  the  first  great  triumph  won 

In  Freedom's  name. 

The  long  night  dies  :  the  welcome  gray 

Of  dawn  we  see  ; 
Speed  up  the  heavens  thy  perfect  day, 

God  of  the  free! 
1851. 

THE   PEACE   OF   EUROPE. 

1852. 

"  GREAT   peace   in   Europe !      Order 
hills     to     Danube's 


regns 
From     Tiber's 


plains  !  " 

So  say  her  kings  and  priests  ;  so  say 
The  lying  prophets  of  our  day. 

Go  lay  to  earth  a  listening  ear  ; 

The    tramp    of    measured     marches 

hear,  — 

The  rolling  of  the  cannon's  wheel, 
The  shotted  musket's  murderous  peal, 
The  night  alarm,  the  sentry's  call, 
The  quick-eared  spy  in  hut  and  hall! 
From  Polar  sea  and  tropic  fen 
The  dying-groans  of  exiled  men  ! 
The  bolted  cell,  the  galley's  chains, 
The  scaffold  smoking  with  its  stains! 
Order,  —  the  hush  of  brooding  slaves! 
Peace,  —  in  the  dungeon-vaults  and 

graves  ! 

O  Fisher!  of  the  world-wide  net, 
With  meshes  in  all  waters  set, 
Whose  fabled  keys  of  heaven  and  hell 
Bolt  hard  the  patriot's  prison-cell^ 
And  open  wide  the  banquet-hall, 
Where  kings  and  priests  hold  carnival  ! 
Weak  vassal  tricked  in  royal  guise, 


204 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Boy  Kaiser  with  thy  lip  of  lies  ; 
Base  gambler  for  Napoleon's  crown, 
Barnacle  on  his  dead  renown! 
Thou,  Bourbon  Neapolitan, 
Crowned  scandal,  loathed  of  God  and 

man; 

And  thou,  fell  Spider  of  the  North! 
Stretching  thy  giant  feelers  forth, 
Within  whose  web  the  freedom  dies 
Of  nations  eaten  up  like  flies! 
Speak,  Prince  and  Kaiser,  Priest  and 

Czar! 
If  this  be  Peace,  .pray  what  is  War? 

White  Angel  of  the  Lord!  unmeet 
That  soil  accursed  for  thy  pure  feet. 
Never  in  Slavery's  desert  flows 
The  fountain  of  thy  charmed  repose ; 
No  tyrant's  hand  thy  chaplet  weaves 
Of  lilies  and  of  olive-leaves  ; 
Not  with  the  wicked  shalt  thou  dwell, 
Thus  saith  the  Eternal  Oracle ; 
Thy  home  is  with  the  pure  and  free! 
Stern  herald  of  thy  better  day, 
Before  thee,  to  prepare  thy  way, 
The  Baptist  Shade  of  Liberty, 
Gray,  scarred  and  hairy-robed,  must 

press 

With  bleeding  feet  the  wilderness ! 
O  that  its  voice  might  pierce  the  ear 
Of  princes,  trembling  while  they  hear 
A  cry  as  of  the  Hebrew  seer : 
Repent !  God's  kingdom  draweth  near ! 


WORDSWORTH. 

WRITTEN   ON   A   BLANK    LEAF   OF   HIS 
MEMOIRS. 

DEAR   friends,  who  read   the  world 
aright, 

And  in  its  common  forms  discern 
A  beauty  and  a  harmony 

The  many  never  learn! 

Kindred  in  soul  of  him  who  found 
In  simple  flower  and  leaf  and  stone 

The  impulse  of  the  sweetest  lays 
Our  Saxon  tongue  has  known,  — 


Accept  this  record  of  a  life 

As  sweet  and  pure,  as  calm  and  good, 
As  a  long  day  of  blandest  June 

In  green  field  and  in  wood. 

How  welcome  to  our  ears,  long  pained 
By  strife  of  sect  and  party  noise, 

The  brook-like  murmur  of  his  song 
Of  nature's  simple  joys ! 

The  violet  by  its  mossy  stone, 

The  primrose  by  the  river's  brim, 

And  chance-sown  daffodil,  have  found 
Immortal  life  through  him. 

The  sunrise  on  his  breezy  lake, 
The  rosy  tints  his  sunset  brought, 

World-seen,  are   gladdening   all   the 

vales 
And  mountain-peaks  of  thought. 

Art  builds  on  sand  ;  the  works  of  pride 
And  human  passion  change  and  fall ; 

But  that  which  shares  the  life  of  God 
With  him  surviveth  all. 


TO  -  . 

LINES   WRITTEN   AFTER  A    SUMMER 
DAY'S  EXCURSION. 


Nature's  priestesses  !  to  whom, 
In  hieroglyph  of  bud  and  bloom, 

Her  mysteries  are  told  ; 
Who,  wise  in  lore  of  wood  and  mead, 
The  seasons'  pictured  scrolls  can  read, 

In  lessons  manifold! 

Thanks  for  the  courtesy,  and  gay 
Good-humor,  which  on  Washing  Day 

Our  ill-timed  visit  bore  ; 
Thanks  for  your  graceful  oars,  which 

broke 
The  morning  dreams  of  Artichoke, 

Along  his  wooded  shore  ! 

Varied  as  varying  Nature's  ways, 
Sprites  of  the  river,  woodland  fays, 
Or  mountain  nymphs,  ye  seem  ; 


IN   PEACE. 


205 


Free-limbed  Dianas  on  the  green, 
Loch  Katrine's  Ellen,  or  Undine, 
Upon  your  favorite  stream. 

The  forms  of  which  the  poets  told, 
The  fair  benignities  of  old, 

Were  doubtless  such  as  you ; 
What  more  than  Artichoke  the  rill 
Of  Helicon  ?     Than  Pipe-stave  hill 

Arcadia's  mountain  view  ? 

No  sweeter  bowers  the  bee  delayed, 
In  wild  Hymettus'  scented  shade, 

Than  those  you  dwell  among  ; 
Snow-flowered  azalias,  intertwined 
With  roses,  over  banks  inclined 

With  trembling  harebells  hung! 

A  charmed  life  unknown  to  death, 
Immortal  freshness  Nature  hath  ; 

Her  fabled  fount  and  glen 
Are  now  and  here  :  Dodona's  shrine 
Still    murmurs    in     the     wind-swept 
pine, — 

All  is  that  e'er  hath  been. 

The   Beauty  which    old    Greece    or 

Rome 
Sung,  painted,  wrought,  lies  close  at 

home ; 

We  need  but  eye  and  ear 
In  all  our  daily  walks  to  trace 
The  outlines  of  incarnate  grace, 
The  hymns  of  gods  to  hear! 


IN    PEACE. 

A  TRACK  of  moonlight  on  a  quiet  lake, 
Whose   smalt   waves   on   a  silver- 
sanded  shore 

Whisper  of  peace,  and  with  the  low 
winds  make 

Such  harmonies  as    keep  the  woods 
awake, 

And  listening  all  night  long  for  their 

sweet  sake 

A  green-waved  slope  of  meadow, 
hovered  o'er 


By    angel-troops    of    lilies,   swaying 

light 
On  viewless  stems,  with  folded  wings 

of  white ; 

A  slumberous   stretch   of  mountain- 
land,  far  seen 
Where  the   low  westering  day,  with 

gold  and  green, 

Purple  and  amber,  softly  blended,  fills 
The  wooded  vales,  and  melts  among 

the  hills ; 

A  vine-fringed  river,  winding  to  its  rest 
On  the  calm  bosom  of  a  stormless 

sea, 

Bearing  alike  upon  its  placid  breast, 
With   earthly   flowers   and    heavenly 

stars  impressed, 

The  hues  of  time  and  of  eternity : 
Such  are  the  pictures  which  the  thought 

of  thee, 
O  friend,  awakeneth,  —  charming  the 

keen  pain 
Of  thy  departure,  and  our  sense  of 

loss 

Requiting  with  the  fulness  of  thy  gain. 
Lo !  on  the  quiet  grave  thy  life-borne 

cross, 
Dropped   only  at   its  side,  methinks 

doth  shine, 

Of  thy  beatitude  the  radiant  sign! 
No  sob  of  grief,  no  wild  lament  be 

there, 
To  break  the  Sabbath  of  the  holy 

air; 
But,  in  their  stead,  the  silent-breathing 

prayer 
Of  hearts  still  waiting  for  a  rest  like 

thine. 
O   spirit  redeemed!     Forgive   us,   if 

henceforth, 
With  sweet  and  pure  similitudes   of 

earth, 
We    keep    thy    pleasant    memory 

freshly  green, 

Of  love's  inheritance  a  priceless  part, 
Which  Fancy's  self,  in  reverent  awe, 

is  seen 

To  paint,  forgetful  of  the  tricks  of  art, 
With  pencil  dipped  alone  in  colors 

of  the  heart. 


206 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


BENEDICITE. 

GOD'S  love  and  peace  be  with  thee, 

where 

Soe'er  this  soft  autumnal  air 
Lifts  the  dark  tresses  of  thy  hair! 

Whether     through     city     casements 

comes 

Its  kiss  to  thee,  in  crowded  rooms, 
Or,  out  among  the  woodland  blooms, 

It  freshens  o'er  thy  thoughtful  face, 
Imparting,  in  its  glad  embrace, 
Beauty  to  beauty,  grace  to  grace ! 

Fair  Nature's  book  together  read, 
The  old  wood-paths  that  knew   our 

tread, 
The  maple  shadows  overhead,  — 

The  hills  we  climbed,  the  river  seen 
By  gleams  along  its  deep  ravine,  — 
All  keep  thy  memory  fresh  and  green. 

Where'er  I  look,  where'er  I  stray, 
Thy  thought  goes  with  me  on  my  way, 
And  hence  theprayer  I  breathe  to-day  ; 

O'er  lapse  of  time  and  change  of  scene, 
The  weary  waste  which  lies  between 
Thyself  and  me,  my  heart  I  lean. 

Thou  lack'st  not  Friendship's  spell- 
word,  nor 

The  half-unconscious  power  to  draw 
All  hearts  to  thine  by  Love's  sweet  law. 

With  these  good  gifts  of  God  is  cast 
Thy  lot,  and  many  a  charm  thou  hast 
To'hold  the  blessed  angels  fast. 

If,  then,  a  fervent  wish  for  thee 

The  gracious  heavens  will  heed  from 

me, 
What  should,  dear  heart,  its  burden 

be? 

The  sighing  of  a  shaken  reed,  — 


What  can  I  more  than  meekly  plead 
The  greatness  of  our  common  need? 

God's  love,  —  unchanging,  pure,  and 

true,  — 

The  Paraclete  white-shining  through 
H  is  peace,  —  the  fall  of  H ermon's  dew ! 

With  such  a  prayer,  on  this  sweet  day, 
As  thou  mayst  hear  and  I  may  say, 
I  greet  thee,  dearest,  far  away! 


PICTURES. 


LIGHT,  warmth,  and  sprouting  green- 
ness, and  o'er  all 
Blue,  stainless,  steel-bright   ether, 

raining  down 
Tranquillity  upon  the  deep-hushed 

town, 
The  freshening  meadows,  and  the 

hillsides  brown ; 
Voice  of  the  west-wind  from  the 

hills  of  pine, 

And  the  brimmed  river  from  its  dis- 
tant fall, 

Low  hum  of  bees,  and  joyous  inter- 
lude 

Of  bird-songs  in  the  streamlet-skirt- 
ing wood,  — 
Heralds   and  prophecies  of  sound 

and  sight, 
Blessed  forerunners  of  the  warmth 

and  light, 
Attendant  angels   to   the    house    of 

prayer, 
With  reverent  footsteps  keeping 

pace  with  mine,  — 
Once  more,  through  God's  great  love, 

with  you  I  share 

A  morn  of  resurrection  sweet  and  fair 
As  that  which  saw,  of  old,  in  Pal- 
estine, 

Immortal    Love    uprising    in     fresh 
bloom 


DERNE. 


207 


From  the  dark  night  and  winter  of 

the  tomb! 
yh  mo.,  zd,  1852. 


II. 

White  with  its  sun-bleached  dust,  the 

pathway  winds 
Before  me  ;  dust  is  on  the  shrunken 

grass, 
And   on   the  trees  beneath  whose 

boughs  I  pass ; 
Frail  screen  against  the  Hunter  of 

the  sky, 
Who,  glaring  on  me  with  his  lidless 

eye, 

While   mounting  with   his   dog- 
star  high  and  higher 
Ambushed  in   light   intolerable,   un- 
binds 
The    burnished    quiver    of    his 

shafts  of  fire 
Between  me  and  the  hot  fields  of 

his  South 

A  tremulous  glow,  as  from    a  fur- 
nace-mouth, 
Glimmers   and   swims    before    my 

dazzled  sight, 
As  if  the  burning  arrows  of  his 

ire 
Broke  as    they  fell,  and   shattered 

into  light ; 
Yet  on  my  cheek  I  feel  the  western 

wind, 
And  hear  it  telling  to  the  orchard 

trees, 
And  to  the  faint  and  flower-forsaken 

bees, 
Tales  of  fair  meadows,  green  with 

constant  streams, 
And  mountains  rising  blue  and  cool 

behind, 
Where   in  moist   dells   the  purple 

orchis  gleams, 
And  starred  with  white   the  virgin's 

bovver  is  twined. 
So   the   overwearied    pilgrim,   as    he 

fares 

Along  life's  summer  waste,  at  times 
is  fanned, 


Even  at  noontide,  by  the  cool,  sweet 

airs 

Of  a  serener  and  a  holier  land, 
Fresh  as  the  morn,  and  as  the  dew- 
fall  bland. 

Breath    of    the   blessed    Heaven    for 
which  we  pray, 

Blow  from  the  eternal  hills! — make 
glad  our  earthly  way ! 

Wi  wo.,  1852. 


DERNE. 

NIGHT  on  the  city  of  the  Moor ! 

On  mosque  and  tomb,  and  white- 
walled  shore, 

On  sea-waves,  to  whose  ceaseless 
knock 

The  narrow  harbor-gates  unlock, 

On  corsair's  galley,  carack  tall, 

And  plundered  Christian  caraval! 

The  sounds  of  Moslem  life  are  still ; 

No  mule-bell  tinkles  down  the  hill ; 

Stretched  in  the  broad  court  of  the 
khan, 

The  dusty  Bornou  caravan 

Lies  heaped  in  slumber,  beast  and 
man  ; 

The  Sheik  is  dreaming  in  his  tent, 

His  noisy  Arab  tongue  overspent ; 

The  kiosk's  glimmering  lights  are 
gone, 

The  merchant  with  his  wares  with- 
drawn ; 

Rough  pillowed  on  some  pirate  breast, 

The  dancing-girl  has  sunk  to  rest ; 

And,  save  where  measured  footsteps 
fall 

Along  the  Bashaw's  guarded  wall, 

Or  where,  like  some  bad  dream,  the 
Jew 

Creeps  stealthily  his  quarter  through, 

Or  counts  with  fear  his  golden  heaps, 

The  City  of  the  Corsair  sleeps ! 

But  where  yon  prison  long  and  low 
Stands   black  against   the  pale  star- 
glow, 
Chafed  by  the  ceaseless  wash  of  waves, 


208 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


There  watch  and  pine  the  Christian 

slaves ;  — 
Rough -bearded    men,   whose   far-off 

wives 

Wear  out  with  grief  their  lonely  lives  ; 
And  youth,  still  flashing  from  his 

eyes 

The  clear  blue  of  New  England  skies, 
A  treasured  lock  of  whose  soft  hair 
Now  wakes  some  sorrowing  mother's 

prayer ; 

Or,  worn  upon  some  maiden  breast, 
Stirs  with  the  loving  heart's  unrest! 

A  bitter  cup  each  life  must  drain, 
The   groaning  earth    is    cursed  with 

pain, 

And,  like  the  scroll  the  angel  bore 
The  shuddering  Hebrew  seer  before, 
O'erwrit  alike,  without,  within, 
With  all  the  woes  which  follow  sin  ; 
But,  bitterest  of  the  ills  beneath 
Whose   load   man    totters    down   to 

death, 

Is  that  which  plucks  the  regal  crown 
Of  Freedom  from  his  forehead  down, 
And  snatches  from  his  powerless 

hand 

The  sceptred  sign  of  self-command, 
Effacing  with  the  chain  and  rod 
The  image  and  the  seal  of  God  ; 
Till  from  his  nature,  day  by  day, 
The  manly  virtues  fall  away, 
And    leave    him    naked,    blind,  and 

mute, 
The  godlike  merging  in  the  brute! 

Why  mourn  the  quiet  ones  who  die 
Beneath  affection's  tender  eye, 
Unto  their  household  and  their  kin 
Like  ripened    corn-sheaves   gathered 

in? 

O  weeper,  from  that  tranquil  sod, 
That  holy  harvest-home  of  God, 
Turn    to    the  quick  and  suffering, — 

shed 

Thy  tears  upon  the  living  dead! 
Thank   God   above   thy   dear    ones1 

graves, 


They  sleep  with  Him,  —  they  are  not 
slaves. 

What  dark  mass,  down  the  mountain- 
sides 

Swift-pouring,  like  a  stream  divides? — 
A  long,  loose,  straggling  caravan, 
Camel  and  horse  and  arme'd  man. 
The  moon's  low  crescent,  glimmering 

o'er 

Its  grave  of  waters  to  the  shore, 
Lights  up  that  mountain  cavalcade, 
And  glints  from  gun  and  spear  and 

blade 
Near    and    more    near!  —  now    o'er 

them  falls 

The  shadow  of  the  city  walls. 
Hark     to     the     sentry's     challenge, 

drowned 
In     the     fierce     trumpet's     charging 

sound ! — 

The  rush  of  men,  the  musket's  peal, 
The   short,  sharp    clang   of  meeting 

steel! 

Vain,    Moslem,    vain    thy    lifeblood 

poured 

So  freely  on  thy  foeman's  sword! 
Not  to  the  swift  nor  to  the  strong 
The  battles  of  the  right  belong ; 
For  he  who  strikes  for  Freedom  wears 
The  armor  of  the  captive's  prayers, 
And  Nature  proffers  to  his  cause 
The  strength  of  her  eternal  laws  ; 
While  he  whose  arm  essays  to  bind 
And   herd  with    common  brutes   his 

kind 

Strives  evermore  at  fearful  odds 
With  Nature  and  the  jealous  gods, 
And  dares  the  dread  recoil  which  late 
Or  soon  their  right  shall  vindicate. 

'Tis  done, —  the  horned  crescent  falls! 
The  star-flag  flouts  the  broken  walls ! 
Joy  to  the  captive  husband !  joy 
To    thy  sick   heart,  O  brown-locked 

boy! 

In  sullen  wrath  the  conquered  Moor 
Wide  open  flings  your  dungeon-door, 
And  leaves  ye  free  from  cell  and  chain, 


INVOCATION. 


209 


The  owners  of  yourselves  again. 
Dark  as  his  allies  desert-born, 
Soiled  with  the  battle's  stain,  and  worn 
With  the  long  marches  of  his  band 
Through  hottest  wastes  of  rock  and 

sand,  — 

Scorched   by  the  sun  and   furnace- 
breath  . 

Of  the  red  desert's  wind  of  death. 
With   welcome  words   and   grasping 

hands, 
The  victor  and  deliverer  stands ! 

The  tale  is  one  of  distant  skies  ; 
The  dust  of  half  a  century  lies 
Upon  it ;  yet  its  hero's  name 
Still  lingers  on  the  lips  of  Fame. 
Men   speak   the   praise  of  him  who 

gave 

Deliverance  to  the  Moorman's  slave, 
Yet  dared  to  brand  with  shame  and 

crime 

The  heroes  of  our  land  and  time, — 
The  self- forgetful  ones,  who  stake 
Home,  name,  and  life  for  Freedom's 

sake. 

God  mend  his  heart  who  cannot  feel 
The  impulse  of  a  holy  zeal, 
And  sees  not,  with  his  sordid  eyes, 
The  beauty  of  self-sacrifice ! 
Though  in  the  sacred  place  he  stands, 
Uplifting  consecrated  hands, 
Unworthy  are  his  lips  to  tell 
Of  Jesus'  martyr-miracle, 
Or  name  aright  that  dread  embrace 
Of  suffering  for  a  fallen  race ! 


ASTR^A. 

"  Jove  means  to  settle 
Astrrea  in  her  seat  again, 
And  let  down  from  his  golden  chain 
An  age  of  better  metal." 

BEN  JONSON,  1615. 

O  POET  rare  and  old ! 

Thy  words  are  prophecies  ; 
Forward  the  age  of  gold, 

The  new  Saturnian  lies. 


The  universal  prayer 

And  hope  are  not  in  vain ; 

Rise,  brothers !  and  prepare 
The  way  for  Saturn's  reign. 

Perish  shall  all  which  takes 
From  labor's  board  and  can ; 

Perish  shall  all  which  makes 
A  spaniel  of  the  man ! 

Free  from  its  bonds  the  mind, 
The  body  from  the  rod  ; 

Broken  all  chains  that  bind 
The  image  of  our  God. 

Just  men  no  longer  pine 
Behind  their  prison-bars  ; 

Through  the  rent  dungeon  shine 
The  free  sun  and  the  stars. 

Earth  own,  at  last,  untrod 
By  sect,  or  caste,  or  clan, 

The  fatherhood  of  God, 
The  brotherhood  of  man! 

Fraud  fail,  craft  perish,  forth 
The  money-changers  driven, 

And  God's  will  done  on  earth, 
As  now  in  heaven ! 


INVOCATION. 

THROUGH  thy  clear  spaces,  Lord,  of 

old. 
Formless    and    void    the   dead    earth 

rolled ; 
Deaf  to   thy   heaven's   sweet  music, 

blind 
To    the   great    lights   which    o'er    it 

shined ; 
No   sound,    no    ray,    no  warmth,  no 

breath, — 
A  dumb  despair,  a  wandering  death. 

To  that  dark,  weltering  horror  came 
Thy  spirit,  like  a  subtle  flame, — 
A  breath  of  life  electrical, 
Awakening  and  transforming  all, 


210 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Till  beat  and  thrilled  in  every  part 
The  pulses  of  a  living  heart. 

Then  knew  their  bounds  the  land  and 
sea; 

Then  smiled  the  bloom  of  mead  and 
tree ; 

From  flower  to  moth,  from  beast  to 
man, 

The  quick  creative  impulse  ran  ; 

And  earth,  with  life  from  thee  re- 
newed, 

Was  in  thy  holy  eyesight  good. 

As  lost  and  void,  as  dark  and  cold 
And  formless  as  that  earth  of  old,  — 
A   wandering   waste    of    storm    and 

night, 
Midst  spheres  of  song  and  realms  of 

light,— 

A  blot  upon  thy  holy  sky, 
Untouched,  unwarned  of  thee,  am  I. 

O  thou  who  movest  on  the  deep 
Of  spirits,  wake  my  own  from  sleep! 
Its  darkness  melt,  its  coldness  warm, 
The  lost  restore,  the  ill  transform, 
That  flower  and  fruit  henceforth  may 

be 
Its  grateful  offering,  worthy  thee. 


THE   CROSS. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  RICHARD  DILL- 
INGHAM,  IN  THE  NASHVILLE  PENI- 
TENTIARY. 

"THE  cross,  if  rightly  borne,  shall  be 
No  burden,  but  support  to  thee  "  ; l 
So,  moved  of  old  time  for  our  sake, 
The  holy  monk  of  Kempen  spake. 

Thou  brave  and  true  one!  upon  whom 
Was  laid  the  cross  of  martyrdom, 
How    didst    thou,    in    thy   generous 

youth, 
Bear  witness  to  this  blessed  truth ! 

1  Thomas  a  Kempis.    Imit.  Christ. 


Thy  cross  of  suffering  and  of  shame 
A  staff  within  thy  hands  became, 
In  paths  where  faith  alone  could  see 
The  Master's  steps  supporting  thee. 

Thine  was  the  seed-time  ;  God  alone 
Beholds  the  end  of  what  is  sown  ; 
Beyond  our  vision,  weak  and  dim, 
The  harvest-time  is  hid  with  Him. 

Yet,  unforgotten  where  it  lies, 
That  seed  of  generous  sacrifice, 
Though  seeming  on  the  desert  cast, 
Shall  rise  with  bloom  and  fruit  at  last. 


EVA. 

DRY  the  tears  for  holy  Eva, 
With  the  blessed  angels  leave  her ; 
Of  the  form  so  soft  and  fair 
Give  to  earth  the  tender  care. 

For  the  golden  locks  of  Eva 
Let  the  sunny  south-land  give  her 
Flowery  pillow  of  repose,  — 
Orange-bloom  and  budding  rose. 

In  the  better  home  of  Eva 
Let  the  shining  ones  receive  her, 
With  the  welcome-voiced  psalm, 
Harp  of  gold  and  waving  palm ! 

All  is  light  and  peace  with  Eva ; 
There  the  darkness  cometh  never ; 
Tears  are  wiped,  and  fetters  fall, 
And  the  Lord  is  all  in  all. 

Weep  no  more  for  happy  Eva, 
Wrong  and  sin  no  more  shall  grieve 

her ; 

Care  and  pain  and  weariness 
Lost  in  love  so  measureless. 

Gentle  Eva,  loving  Eva, 
Child  confessor,  true  believer, 
Listener  at  the  Master's  knee, 
"Suffer  such  to  come  to  me." 


APRIL. 


211 


O,  for  faith  like  thine,  sweet  Eva, 
Lighting  all  the  solemn  river, 
And  the  blessings  of  the  poor 
Wafting  to  the  heavenly  shore ! 


TO   FREDRIKA   BREMER. 

SEERESS  of  the  misty  Norland, 
Daughter  of  the  Vikings  bold, 

Welcome  to  the  sunny  Vineland, 
Which  thy  fathers  sought  of  old ! 

Soft  as  flow  of  Silja's  waters, 

When  the  moon  of  summer  shines, 

Strong  as  Winter  from  his  mountains 
Roaring  through  the  sleeted  pines. 


Heart  and  ear,  we  long  have  listened 
To  thy  saga,  rune,  and  song, 

As  a  household  joy  and  presence 
We   have   known   and   loved  thee 
long. 

By  the  mansion's  marble  mantel, 
Round  the  log- walled  cabin's  hearth, 

Thy   sweet   thoughts    and    northern 

fancies 
Meet  and  mingle  with  our  mirth. 


And  o'er  weary  spirits  keeping 

Sorrow's    night-watch,     long    and 
chill, 

Shine  they  like  thy  sun  of  summer 
Over  midnight  vale  and  hill. 

We  alone  to  thee  are  strangers, 
Thou  our  friend  and  teacher  art ; 

Come,  and  know  us  as  we  know  thee  ; 
Let  us  meet  thee  heart  to  heart! 


To  our  homes  and  household  altars 
We,  in  turn,  thy  steps  would  lead, 

As  thy  loving  hand  has  led  us 
O'er  the  threshold  of  the  Swede. 


APRIL. 

"  The  spring  comes  slowly  up  this  way." 
Christabel. 

'Tis  the  noon  of  the  spring-time,  yet 

never  a  bird 
In  the  wind-shaken  elm  or  the  maple 

is  heard ; 
For  green  meadow-grasses  wide  levels 

of  snow, 

And  blowing  of  drifts  where  the  cro- 
cus should  blow ; 
Where  wind-flower  and  violet,  amber 

and  white, 
On  south-sloping   brooksides  should 

smile  in  the  light, 

O'er  the  cold  winter-beds  of  their  late- 
waking  roots 
The  frosty  flake  eddies,  the  ice-crystal 

shoots  ; 

And,  longing  for  light,  under  wind- 
driven  heaps, 
Round  the  boles  of  the  pine-wood  the 

ground-laurel  creeps, 
Unkissed  of  the  sunshine,  unbaptized 

of  showers, 
With    buds   scarcely   swelled,   which 

should  burst  into  flowers! 
We  wait  for  thy  coming,  sweet  wind 

of  the  south ! 
For  the  touch  of  thy  light  wings,  the 

kiss  of  thy  mouth  ; 
For  the  yearly  evangel  thou  bearest 

from  God, 
Resurrection  and  life  to  the  graves  of 

the  sod ! 
Up  our  long  river-valley,  for  days,  have 

not  ceased 
The  wail  and  the  shriek  of  the  bitter 

northeast,  — 
Raw  and  chill,  as  if  winnowed  through 

ices  and  snow, 
All  the  way  from  the  land  of  the  wild 

Esquimau,  — 
Until  all  our  dreams  of  the  land  of  the 

blest, 
Like  that  red  hunter's,  turn  to    the 

sunny  southwest. 


212 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


O  soul  of  the  spring-time,  its  light 

and  its  breath, 
Bring  warmth  to  this  coldness,  bring 

life  to  this  death  ; 

Renew  the  great  miracle;  let  us  be- 
hold 
The   stone   from   the   mouth   of  the 

sepulchre  rolled, 
And  Nature,  like  Lazarus,  rise,  as  of 

old! 
Let  our  faith,  which  in  darkness  and 

coldness  has  lain, 
Revive    with    the    warmth    and    the 

brightness  again, 
And  in  blooming  of  flower  and  budding 

of  tree 
The  symbols  and  types  of  our  destiny 

see ; 
The  life  of  the  spring-time,  the  life  of 

the  whole, 
And,  as  sun  to  the  sleeping  earth,  love 

to  the  soul ! 


STANZAS   FOR   THE   TIMES. 

1850. 

THE  evil  days  have  come,  —  the  poor 

Are  made  a  prey  ; 
Bar  up  the  hospitable  door. 
Put  out  the  fire-lights,  point  no  more 

The  wanderer's  way. 

For  Pity  now  is  crime ;  the  chain 

Which  binds  our  States 
Is  melted  at  her  hearth  in  twain, 
Is  rusted  by  her  tears'  soft  rain : 
Close  up  her  gates. 

Our  Union,  like  a  glacier  stirred 

By  voice  below, 

Or  bell  of  kine,  or  wing  of  bird, 
A  beggar's  crust,  a  kindly  word 

May  overthrow! 

Poor,  whispering  tremblers !  —  yet  we 

boast 
Our  blood  and  name ; 


Bursting  its  century-bolted  frost, 
Each  gray  cairn  on  the  Northman's 

coast 
Cries  out  for  shame! 

0  for  the  open  firmament, 

The  prairie  free, 
The  desert  hillside,  cavern-rent, 
The  Pawnee's  lodge,  the  Arab's  tent, 

The  Bushman's  tree! 

Than  web  of  Persian  loom  most  rare, 

Or  soft  divan, 

Better  the  rough  rock,  bleak  and  bare, 
Or  hollow  tree,  which  man  may  share 

With  suffering  man. 

1  hear  a  voice  :  "  Thus  saith  the  Law, 

Let  Love  be  dumb  ; 
Clasping  her  liberal  hands  in  awe, 
Let  sweet-lipped  Charity  withdraw 

From  hearth  and  home." 

I  hear  another  voice :  "  The  poor 

Are  thine  to  feed  ; 

Turn  not  the  outcast  from  thy  door, 
Nor  give  to  bonds  and  wrong  once 
more 

Whom  God  hath  freed." 

Dear  Lord!    between   that   law  and 
thee 

No  choice  remains ; 
Yet  not  untrue  to  man's  decree, 
Though  spurning  its  rewards,  is  he 

Who  bears  its  pains. 

Not  mine  Sedition's  trumpet-blast 

And  threatening  word  ; 
I  read  the  lesson  of  the  Past, 
That  firm  endurance  wins  at  last 

More  than  the  sword. 

O  clear-eyed  Faith,  and  Patience,  thou 

So  calm  and  strong ! 
Lend  strength  to  weakness,  teach  us 

how 
The  sleepless  eyes  of  God  look  through 

This  night  of  wrong! 


A   SABBATH   SCENE. 


213 


A   SABBATH    SCENE. 

SCARCE  had  the  solemn  Sabbath-bell 
Ceased  quivering  in  the  steeple, 

Scarce  had  the  parson  to  his  desk 
Walked  stately  through  his  people, 

When  down  the  summer-shaded  street 

A  wasted  female  figure, 
With  dusky  brow  and  naked  feet, 

Came  rushing  wild  and  eager. 

She  saw  the  white  spire  through  the 
trees, 

She  heard  the  sweet  hymn  swelling : 
O  pitying  Christ !  a  refuge  give 

That  poor  one  in  thy  dwelling! 

Like  a  scared  fawn  before  the  hounds, 
Right  up  the  aisle  she  glided, 

While  close  behind  her,  whip  in  hand, 
A  lank-haired  hunter  strided. 

She  raised  a  keen  and  bitter  cry. 
To  Heaven  and  Earth  appealing ;  — 

Were     manhood's     generous    pulses 

dead? 
Had  woman's  heart  no  feeling? 

A  score  of  stout  hands  rose  between 
The  hunter  and  the  flying : 

Age  clenched  his  staff,  and  maiden 

eyes 
Flashed  tearful,  yet  defying. 

"  Who  dares  profane  this  house  and 

day?" 

Cried  out  the  angry  pastor. 
"  Why,  bless  your  soul,  the  wench 's 

a  slave, 
And  I  'm  her  lord  and  master ! 

"  I  Ve  law  and  gospel  on  my  side, 
And  who  shall  dare  refuse  me?" 

Down  came  the  parson,  -bowing  low, 
"  My  good  sir,  pray  excuse  me ! 

"  Of  course  I  know  your  right  divine 
To  own  and  work  and  whip  her ; 


Quick,  deacon,  throw  that  Polyglott 
Before  the  wench,  and  trip  her ! " 

Plump  dropped  the  holy  tome,  and  o'er 
Its  sacred  pages  stumbling, 

Bound  hand  and  foot,  a  slave  once 

more, 
The  hapless  wretch  lay  trembling. 

I  saw  the  parson  tie  the  knots, 
The  while  his  flock  addressing, 

The  Scriptural  claims  of  slavery 
With  text  on  text  impressing. 

"Although,'1  said   he,  "on    Sabbath 
day, 

All  secular  occupations 
Are  deadly  sins,  we  must  fulfil 

Our  moral  obligations : 

"And  this  commends  itself  as  one 
To  every  conscience  tender; 

As  Paul  sent  back  Onesimus, 

My  Christian  friends,  we  send  her!  " 

Shriek  rose  on  shriek,  —  the  Sabbath 
air 

Her  wild  cries  tore  asunder  ; 
I  listened,  with  hushed  breath,  to  hear 

God  answering  with  his  thunder! 

All  still!  — the  very  altar's  cloth 
Had  smothered  down  her  shrieking, 

And,  dumb,  she  turned  from  face  to 

face, 
For  human  pity  seeking! 

I  saw  her  dragged  along  the  aisle, 
Her  shackles  harshly  clanking ; 

I  heard  the  parson,  over  all, 
The  Lord  devoutly  thanking! 

My  brain  took  fire  :  "  Is  this,"  I  cried, 
"  The  end  of  prayer  and  preaching? 

Then    down  with  pulpit,  down  with 

priest, 
And  give  us  Nature's  teaching! 

"  Foul  shame  and  scorn  be  on  ye  all 
Who  turn  the  good  to  evil, 


214 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


And  steal  the  Bible  from  the  Lord, 
To  give  it  to  the  Devil! 

"  Than   garbled    text    or    parchment 
law 

I  own  a  statute  higher ; 
And  God  is  true,  though  every  book 

And  every  man 's  a  liar! " 

Just  then  I  felt  the  deacon's  hand 
In  wrath  my  coat-tail  seize  on  ; 

I  heard  the  priest  cry,  "  Infidel!" 
The  lawyer  mutter,  "  Treason!  " 

I     started     up,  —  where     now    were 
church, 

Slave,  master,  priest,  and  people? 
I  only  heard  the  supper-bell, 

Instead  of  clanging  steeple. 

But,  on  the  open  window's  sill, 

O'er     which     the     white     blooms 
drifted, 

The  pages  of  a  good  old  Book 
The  wind  of  summer  lifted. 

And  flower  and  vine,  like  angel  wings 

Around  the  Holy  Mother, 
Waved  softly  there,  as  if  God's  truth 

And  Mercy  kissed  each  other. 

And  freely  from  the  cherry-bough 
Above  the  casement  swinging, 

With  golden  bosom  to  the  sun, 
The  oriole  was  singing. 

As  bird  and  flower  made  plain  of  old 
The  lesson  of^the  Teacher, 

So  now  I  heard  the  written  Word 
Interpreted  by  Nature! 

For  to  my  ear  methought  the  breeze 
Bore  Freedom's  blessed  word  on  ; 

THUS     SAITH     THE     LORD  :       BREAK 

EVERY   YOKE, 
UNDO  THE  HEAVY   BURDEN! 


REMEMBRANCE. 

WITH   COPIES   OF   THE   AUTHOR'S 
WRITINGS. 

FRIEND  of  mine!  whose  lot  was  cast 
With  me  in  the  distant  past, — 
Where,  like  shadows  flitting  fast, 

Fact  and  fancy,  thought  and  theme, 
Word  and  work,  begin  to  seem 
Like  a  half-remembered  dream! 

Touched  by  change  have  all  things 

been, 

Yet  I  think  of  thee  as  when 
We  had  speech  of  lip  and  pen. 

For  the  calm  thy  kindness  lent 
To  a  path  of  discontent, 
Rough  with  trial  and  dissent ; 

Gentle  words  where  such  were  few, 
Softening  blame  where  blame  was  true, 
Praising  where  small  praise  was  due ; 

For  a  waking  dream  made  good, 

For  an  ideal  understood, 

For  thy  Christian  womanhood  ; 

For  thy  marvellous  gift  to  cull 
From  our  common  life  and  dull 
Whatsoe'er  is  beautiful ; 

Thoughts  and  fancies,  Hybla's  bees 
Dropping  sweetness  ;  true  heart's-ease 
Of  congenial  sympathies  ;  — 

Still  for  these  I  own  my  debt ; 
Memory,  with  her  eyelids  wet, 
Fain  would  thank  thee  even  yet ! 

And  as  one  who  scatters  flowers 
WThere   the    Queen   of  May's    sweet 

hours 
Sits,     o'ertwined     with      blossomed 

bowers, 


KATHLEEN. 


215 


In  superfluous  zeal  bestowing 
Gifts  where  gifts  are  overflowing, 
So  I  pay  the  debt  I  'm  owing. 

To  thy  full  thoughts,  gay  or  sad, 
Sunny-hued  or  sober  clad, 
Something  of  my  own  I  add ; 

Well  assured  that  thou  wilt  take 
Even  the  offering  which  I  make 
Kindly  for  the  giver's  sake. 


THE  POOR  VOTER  ON   ELEC- 
TION DAY. 

THE  proudest  now  is  but  my  peer, 

The  highest  not  more  high  ; 
To-day,  of  all  the  weary  year, 

A  king  of  men  am  I. 
To-day,  alike  are  great  and  small, 

The  nameless  and  the  known  ; 
My  palace  is  the  peopled  hall, 

The  ballot-box  my  throne ! 

Who  serves  to-day  upon  the  list 

Beside  the  served  shall  stand ; 
Alike  the  brown  and  wrinkled  fist, 

The  gloved  and  dainty  hand! 
The  rich  is  level  with  the  poor, 

The  weak  is  strong  to-day  ; 
And   sleekest   broadcloth   counts    no 
more 

Than  homespun  frock  of  gray. 

To-day  let  pomp  and  vain  pretence 

My  stubborn  right  abide  ; 
I  set  a  plain  man's  common  sense 

Against  the  pedant's  pride. 
To-day  shall  simple  manhood  try 

The  strength  of  gold  and  land; 
The  wide  world  has  not  wealth  to  buy 

The  power  in  my  right  hand ! 

While  there  's  a  grief  to  seek  redress, 

Or  balance  to  adjust, 
Where  weighs  our  living  manhood  less 

Than  Mammon's  vilest  dust,  — 


While  there 's  a  right  to  need  my  vote, 

A  wrong  to  sweep  away, 
Up !  clouted  knee  and  ragged  coat ! 

A  man 's  a  man  to-day ! 


TRUST. 

THE  same  old  baffling  questions!     O 

my  friend, 

I  cannot  answer  them.    In  vain  I  send 
My  soul  into  the  dark,  where  never 

burn 

The  lamps  of  science,  nor  the  natu- 
ral light 
Of  Reason's  sun  and  stars!  I  cannot 

learn 
Their  great  and  solemn  meanings,  nor 

discern 
The  awful  secrets  of  the  eyes  which 

turn 
Evermore  on  us  through   the  day 

and  night 
With  silent  challenge  and  a  dumb 

demand. 

Proffering  the  riddles  of  the  dread  un- 
known, 
Like   the   calm   Sphinxes,  with  their 

eyes  of  stone, 
Questioning  the  centuries  from  their 

veils  of  sand ! 

I  have  no  answer  for  myself  or  thee. 
Save  that  I  learned  beside  my  mother's 

knee; 

"  All  is  of  God  that  is,  and  is  to  be  ; 
And  God  is  good."    Let  this  suffice 

us  still, 
Resting  in  childlike  trust  upon  his 

will 
Who  moves  to   his  great  ends  un- 

thwarted  by  the  ill. 


KATHLEEN. 

O  NORAH,  lay  your  basket  down, 
And  rest  your  weary  hand, 

And  come  and  hear  me  sing  a  song 
Of  our  old  Ireland. 


216 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


There  was  a  lord  of  Galaway, 

A  mighty  lord  was  he  ; 
And  he  did  wed  a  second  wife, 

A  maid  of  low  degree. 

But  he  was  old,  and  she  was  young, 

And  so,  in  evil  spite, 
She  baked  the  black  bread  for  his  kin, 

And  fed  her  own  with  white. 

She  whipped  the  maids  and  starved 
the  kern, 

And  drove  away  the  poor ; 
"  Ah,  woe  is  me ! "  the  old  lord  said, 

"  I  rue  my  bargain  sore!  " 

This  lord  he  had  a  daughter  fair, 
Beloved  of  old  and  young, 

And  nightly  round  the  shealing-fires 
Of  her  the  gleeman  sung. 

"  As  sweet  and  good  is  young  Kathleen 

As  Eve  before  her  fall  "  ; 
So  sang  the  harper  at  the  fair, 

So  harped  he  in  the  hall. 

"  O  come  to  me,  my  daughter  dear! 

Come  sit  upon  my  knee, 
For  looking  in  your  face,  Kathleen, 

Your  mother's  own  I  see ! " 

He  smoothed  and  smoothed  her  hair 
away, 

He  kissed  her  forehead  fair ; 
"  It  is  my  darling  Mary's  brow, 

It  is  my  darling's  hair !  " 

O,  then  spake  up  the  angry  dame, 
u  Get  up,  get  up,"  quoth  she, 

"  I  '11  sell  ye  over  Ireland, 
I  '11  sell  ye  o'er  the  sea !  " 

She  clipped  her  glossy  hair  away, 
That  none  her  rank  might  know, 

She  took  away  her  gown  of  silk, 
And  gave  her  one  of  tow, 

And  sent  her  down  to  Limerick  town, 
And  to  a  seaman  sold 


This  daughter  of  an  Irish  lord    ' 
For  ten  good  pounds  in  gold. 

The  lord  he  smote  upon  his  breast, 
And  tore  his  beard  so  gray ; 

But  he  was  old,  and  she  was  young, 
And  so  she  had  her  way. 

Sure  that  same   night   the   Banshee 
howled 

To  fright  the  evil  dame, 
And  fairy  folks,  who  loved  Kathleen, 

With  funeral  torches  came. 

She  watched  them  glancing  through 
the  trees, 

And  glimmering  down  the  hill ; 
They  crept  before  the  dead-vault  door, 

And  there  they  all  stood  still ! 

"  Get  up,  old  man!  the   wake-lights 

shine !  " 

"  Ye  murthering  witch,"  quoth  he, 
"  So  I  'm  rid  of  your  tongue,  I  little 

care 
If  they  shine  for  you  or  me. 

"  O,  whoso  brings  my  daughter  back, 
My  gold  and  land  shall  have!  " 

O,  then  spake  up  his  handsome  page, 
"  No  gold  nor  land  I  crave ! 

"  But  give  to  me  your  daughter  dear, 
Give  sweet  Kathleen  to  me, 

Be  she  on  sea  or  be  she  on  land, 
I  '11  bring  her  back  to  thee." 

"  My  daughter  is  a  lady  born, 

And  you  of  low  degree, 
But  she  shall  be  your  bride  the  day 

You  bring  her  back  to  me." 

He  sailed  east,  he  sailed  west, 
And  far  and  long  sailed  he, 

Until  he  came  to  Boston  town, 
Across  the  great  salt  sea. 

"  O,  have  ye  seen  the  young  Kathleen, 
The  flower  of  Ireland? 


FIRST-DAY   THOUGHTS. 


217 


Ye  '11  know  her  by  her  eyes  so  blue, 
And  by  her  snow-white  hand ! " 

Out  spake  an  ancient  man,  "  I  know 
The  maiden  whom  ye  mean  ; 

I  bought  her  of  a  Limerick  man, 
And  she  is  called  Kathleen. 

"  No  skill  hath  she  in  household  work, 
Her  hands  are  soft  and  white, 

Yet  well  by  loving  looks  and  ways 
She  doth  her  cost  requite." 

So  up  they  walked  through    Boston 
town, 

And  met  a  maiden  fair, 
A  little  basket  on  her  arm 

So  snowy-white  and  bare. 

"Come   hither,   child,  and  say   hast 
thou 

This  young  man  ever  seen?" 
They  wept  within  each  other's  arms, 

The  page  and  young  Kathleen. 

"  O  give  to  me  this  darling  child, 
And  take  my  purse  of  gold." 

"  Nay,  not  by  me,"  her  master  said, 
"  Shall  sweet  Kathleen  be  sold. 

"  We  loved  her  in  the  place  of  one 
The  Lord  hath  early  ta'en  ; 

But,  since  her  heart 's  in  Ireland, 
We  give  her  back  again ! " 

O,  for  that  same  the  saints  in  heaven 
For  his  poor  soul  shall  pray, 

And  Mary  Mother  wash  with  tears 
His  heresies  away. 

Sure  now  they  dwell  in  Ireland, 

As  you  go  up  Claremore 
Ye  11  see  their  castle  looking  down 

The  pleasant  Gal  way  shore. 

And  the  old  lord's  wife  is  dead  and 

gone, 
And  a  happy  man  is  he, 


For  he  sits  beside  his  own  Kathleen, 
With  her  darling  on  his  knee. 


FIRST-DAY    THOUGHTS. 

IN  calm  and  cool   and   silence,  once 

again 
I    find   my   old   accustomed   place 

among 
My  brethren,  where,  perchance,  no 

human  tongue 
Shall   utter  words ;      where  never 

hymn  is  sung, 
Nor   deep  toned  organ  blown,  nor 

censer  swung, 

Nor  dim  light  falling  through  the  pic- 
tured pane! 
There,   syllabled   by  silence,   let  me 

hear 
The  still  small  voice  which  reached 

the  prophet's  ear ; 
Read    in    my   heart    a    still   diviner 

law 
Than   Israel's   leader  on   his    tables 

saw ! 

There  let  me  strive  with  each  beset- 
ting sin, 
Recall  my  wandering   fancies,  and 

restrain 
The   sore    disquiet    of   a    restless 

brain ; 
And,  as  the  path  of  duty  is   made 

plain, 
May  grace  be  given  that  I  may  walk 

therein, 
Not  like  the  hireling,  for  his  selfish 

gain, 
With  backward  glances  and  reluctant 

tread, 

Making  a  merit  of  his  coward  dread,  — 
But,'  cheerful,  in  the  light   around 

me  thrown, 
Walking  as  one  to  pleasant  service 

led; 
Doing  God's  will  as  if  it  were  my 

own, 

Yet  trusting  not  in  mine,  but  in  his 
strength  alone ! 


218 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


KOSSUTH. 

TYPE   of  two   mighty   continents!  — 

combining 

The  strength  of  Europe  with   the 
warmth  and  glow 

Of  Asian   song  and  prophecy,  —  the 

shining 

Of  Orient  splendors  over  Northern 
snow! 

Who   shall  receive  him?     Who,  un- 
blushing, speak 

Welcome  to  him,  who,  while  he  strove 
to  break 

The    Austrian    yoke     from    Magyar 
necks,  smote  off 

At  the  same  blow  the  fetters  of  the 

serf,  — 

.Rearing  the  altar  of  his  Father-land 
On  the  firm  base  of  freedom,  and 
thereby 

Lifting  to  Heaven  a  patriot's  stainless 

hand, 

Mocked  not  the  God  of  Justice  with 
a  lie! 

Who  shall  be  Freedom's  mouth-piece  ? 
Who  shall  give 

Her  welcoming   cheer   to   the   great 
fugitive  ? 

Not  he  who,  all  her  sacred  trusts  be- 
traying, 
Is  scourging  back  to  slavery's  hell 

of  pain 

The  swarthy  Kossuths  of  our  land 
again! 

Not  he  whose  utterance  now  from  lips 
designed 

The     bugle-march     of     Liberty     to 
wind, 

And  call  her  hosts  beneath  the  break- 
ing light,  — 

The   keen   reveille   of  her  morn   of 

fight,  — 

Is  but  the  hoarse  note  of  the  blood- 
hound's baying, 

The  wolf's  long  howl  behind  the  bond- 
man's flight ! 

O  for  the  tongue  of  him  who  lies  at 
rest 


In   Quincy's   shade   of  patrimonial 
trees,  — 

Last  of  the  Puritan  tribunes  and  the 

best,  — 

To  lend  a  voice  to  Freedom's  sym- 
pathies, 

And  hail  the  coming  of  the  noblest 
guest 

The  Old  World's  wrong  has  given  the 
New  World  of  the  West ! 


TO   MY  OLD  SCHOOLMASTER. 

AN    EPISTLE    NOT   AFTER    THE    MAN- 
NER   OF    HORACE. 

OLD  friend,  kind  friend !  lightly  down 
Drop  time's  snow-flakes  on  thy  crown ! 
Never  be  thy  shadow  less, 
Never  fail  thy  cheerfulness  ; 
Care,  that  kills  the  cat,  may  plough 
Wrinkles  in  the  miser's  brow, 
Deepen  envy's  spiteful  frown, 
Draw  the  mouths  of  bigots  down, 
Plague  ambition's  dream,  and  sit 
Heavy  on  the  hypocrite, 
Haunt  the  rich  man's  door,  and  ride 
In  the  gilded  coach  of  pride  ;  — 
Let  the  fiend  pass!  —  what  can  he 
Find  to  do  with  such  as  thee? 
Seldom  comes  that  evil  guest 
Where  the  conscience  lies  at  rest, 
And  brown  health  and  quiet  wit 
Smiling  on  the  threshold  sit. 

I,  the  urchin  unto  whom, 
In  that  smoked  and  dingy  room. 
Where  the  district  gave  thee  rule 
O'er  its  ragged  winter  school, 
Thou  didst  teach  the  mysteries 
Of  those  weary  A  B  C's,  — 
Where,  to  fill  the  every  pause 
Of  thy  wise  and  learned  saws, 
Through  the  cracked  and  crazy  wall 
Came  the  cradle-rock  and  squall, 
And  the  goodman's  voice,  at  strife 
With  his  shrill  and  tipsy  wife,  — 
Luring  us  by  stories  old, 
With  a  comic  unction  told, 


TO   MY   OLD   SCHOOLMASTER. 


219 


More  than  by  the  eloquence 
Of  terse  birchen  arguments 
(Doubtful  gain,  I  fear),  to  look 
With  complacence  on  a  book!  — 
Where  the  genial  pedagogue 
Half  forgot  his  rogues  to  Hog, 
Citing  tale  or  apologue, 
WTise  and  merry  in  its  drift 
As  old  Phaedrus'  twofold  gift, 
Had  the  little  rebels  known  it, 
Risuin  et  prudentiam  monet  I 
I,  —  the  man  of  middle  years, 
In  whose  sable  locks  appears 
Many  a  warning  fleck  of  gray, — 
Looking  back  to  that  far  day, 
And  thy  primal  lessons,  feel 
Grateful  smiles  my  lips  unseal, 
As,  remembering  thee,  I  blend 
Olden  teacher,  present  friend, 
Wise  with  antiquarian  search, 
In  the  scrolls  of  State  and  Church  ; 
Named  on  history's  title-page, 
Parish-clerk  and  justice  sage  ; 
For  the  ferule's  wholesome  awe 
Wielding  now  the  sword  of  law. 

Threshing  Time's  neglected  sheaves, 
Gathering  up  the  scattered  leaves 
Which  the  wrinkled  sibyl  cast 
Careless  from  her  as  she  passed,  — 
Twofold  citizen  art  thou, 
Freeman  of  the  past  and  now. 
He  who  bore  thy  name  of  old 
Midway  in  the  heavens  did  hold 
Over  Gibeon  moon  and  sun  ; 
Thou  hast  bidden  them  backward  run  ; 
Of  to-day  the  present  ray 
Flinging  over  yesterday ! 

Let  the  busy  ones  deride 

What  I  deem  of  right  thy  pride  ; 

Let  the  fools  their  tread-mills  grind, 

Look  not  forward  nor  behind, 

Shuffle  in  and  wriggle  out, 

Veer  with  every  breeze  about, 

Turning  like  a  windmill  sail, 

Or  a  dog  that  seeks  his  tail ; 

Let  them  laugh  to  see  thee  fast 

Tabernacled  in  the  Past, 

Working  out  with  eye  and  lip, 


Riddles  of  old  penmanship, 
Patient  as  Belzoni  there 
Sorting  out,  with  loving  care, 
Mummies  of  dead  questions  stripped 
From  their  sevenfold  manuscript! 

Dabbling,  in  their  noisy  way, 

In  the  puddles  of  to-day, 

Little  know  they  of  that  vast 

Solemn  ocean  of  the  past, 

On  whose  margin,  wreck-JDespread, 

Thou  art  walking  with  the  dead, 

Questioning  the  stranded  years, 

Waking  smiles,  by  turns,  and  tears, 

As  thou  callest  up  again 

Shapes  the  dust  has  long  o'erlain,  — 

Fair-haired  woman,  bearded  man, 

Cavalier  and  Puritan ; 

In  an  age  whose  eager  view 

Seeks  but  present  things,  and  new, 

Mad  for  party,  sect,  and  gold, 

Teaching  reverence  for  the  old. 

On  that  shore,  with  fowler's  tact, 
Coolly  bagging  fact  on  fact, 
Naught  amiss  to  thee  can  float, 
Tale,  or  song,  or  anecdote  ; 
Village  gossip,  centuries  old, 
Scandals  by  our  grandams  told, 
What  the  pilgrim's  table  spread, 
Where  he  lived,  and  whom  he  wed, 
Long-drawn  bill  of  wine  and  beer 
For  his  ordination  cheer, 
Or  the  flip  that  wellnigh  made 
Glad  his  funeral  cavalcade  ; 
Weary  prose,  and  poet's  lines, 
Flavored  by  their  age,  like  wines, 
Eulogistic  of  some  quaint, 
Doubtful,  puritanic  saint ; 
Lays  that  quickened  husking  jigs, 
Jests  that  shook  grave  periwigs, 
When  the  parson  had  his  jokes 
And  his  glass,  like  other  folks  ; 
Sermons  that,  for  mortal  hours, 
Taxed  our  fathers'  vital  powers, 
As  the  long  nineteenthlies  poured 
Downward  from  the  sounding-board, 
And,  for  fire  of  Pentecost, 
Touched    their    beards    December's 
frost. 


220 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Time  is  hastening  on,  and  we 
What  our  fathers  are  shall  be,  — 
Shadow-shapes  of  memory! 
Joined  to  that  vast  multitude 
Where  the  great  are  but  the  good, 
And    the    mind    of    strength    shall 

prove 

Weaker  than  the  heart  of  love  ; 
Pride  of  graybeard  wisdom  less 
Than  the  infant's  guilelessness, 
And  his  song  of  sorrow  more 
Than  the  crown  the  Psalmist  wore! 
Who  shall  then,  with  pious  zeal, 
At  our  moss-grown  thresholds  kneel, 
From  a  stained  and  stony  page 
Reading  to  a  careless  age. 
With  a  patient  eye  like  thine, 
Prosing  tale  and  limping  line, 
Names  and  words  the  hoary  rime 
Of  the  Past  has  made  sublime? 
Who  shall  work  for  us  as  well 
The  antiquarian's  miracle? 
Who  to  seeming  life  recall 
Teacher  grave  and  pupil  small? 
Who  shall  give  to  thee  and  me 
Freeholds  in  futurity? 

Well,  whatever  lot  be  mine, 
Long  and  happy  days  be  thine, 
Ere  thy  full  and  honored  age 
Dates  of  time  its  latest  page! 
Squire  for  master,  State  for  school, 
Wisely  lenient,  live  and  rule  ; 
Over  grown-up  knave  and  rogue 
Play  the  watchful  pedagogue ; 


Or,  while  pleasure  smiles  on  duty, 
At  the  call  of  youth  and  beauty, 
Speak  for  them  the  spell  of  law 
Which  shall  bar  and  bolt  withdraw, 
And  the  flaming  sword  remove 
From  the  Paradise  of  Love 
Still,  with  undimmed  eyesight,  pore 
Ancient  tome  and  record  o'er ; 
Still  thy  week-day  lyrics  croon, 
Pitch  in  church  the  Sunday  tune, 
Showing  something,  in  thy  part, 
Of  the  old  Puritanic  art, 
Singer  after  Sternhold's  heart! 
In  thy  pew,  for  many  a  year, 
Homilies  from  Oldbug  hear. 
Who  to  wit  like  that  of  South, 
And  the  Syrian's  golden  mouth, 
Doth  the  homely  pathos  add 
Which  the  pilgrim  preachers  had ; 
Breaking,  like  a  child  at  play, 
Gilded  idols  of  the  day, 
Cant  of  knave  and  pomp  of  fool 
Tossing  with  his  ridicule, 
Yet,  in  earnest  or  in  jest, 
Ever  keeping  truth  abreast. 
And,  when  thou  art  called,  at  last, 
To  thy  townsmen  of  the  past, 
Not  as  stranger  shalt  thou  come  ; 
Thou  shalt  find  thyself  at  home! 
With  the  little  and  the  big, 
Woollen  cap  and  periwig, 
Madam  in  her  high-laced  ruff, 
Goody  in  her  home-made  stuff,  — 
Wise  and  simple,  rich  and  poor, 
Thou  hast  known  them  all  before ! 


THE   PANORAMA. 


THE   PANORAMA,    AND    OTHER    POEMS,    1856. 

"  A  !  fredome  is  a  nobill  thing! 
Fredome  mayse  man  to  haif  liking. 
Fredome  all  solace  to  man  girfis ; 
He  levys  at  ese  that  frely  levys! 
A  nobil  hart  may  haif  nane  ese 
Na  ellys  nocht  that  may  him  plese 
Gyff  Fredome  failythe." 

ARCHDEACON  BARBOUR. 


THROUGH  the  long  hall  the  shut- 
tered windows  shed 
A   dubious   light  on  every  upturned 

head,  — 
On  locks  like  those  of  Absalom  the 

fair, 
On  the  bald  apex  ringed  with  scanty 

hair, 
On  blank  indifference  and  on  curious 

stare  ; 
On  the  pale  Showman  reading  from 

his  stage 
The     hieroglyphics     of    that    facial 

page ; 
Half  sad,  half  scornful,  listening  to  the 

bruit 
Of  restless    cane-tap   and   impatient 

foot, 
And  the  shrill  call,  across  the  general 

din, 
"  Roll  up  your  curtain !     Let  the  show 

begin!" 

At  length  a  murmur  like  the  winds 

that  break 
Into  green  waves  the  prairie's  grassy 

lake, 
Deepened  and  swelled  to  music  clear 

and  loud, 
And,  as  the  west-wind  lifts  a  summer 

cloud, 
The  curtain  rose,  disclosing  wide  and 

far 
A  green  land  stretching  to  the  evening 

star, 
Fair  rivers,  skirted  by  primeval  trees 


And  flowers  hummed  over  by  the  des- 
ert bees, 

Marked  by  tall  bluffs  whose  slopes  of 
greenness  show 

Fantastic  outcrops  of  the  rock  be- 
low, — 

The  slow  result  of  patient  Nature's 
pains, 

And  plastic  fingering  of  her  sun  and 
rains,  — 

Arch,  tower,  and  gate,  grotesquely 
windowed  hall. 

And  long  escarpment  of  half-crumbled 
wall, 

Huger  than  those  which,  from  steep 
hills  of  vine, 

Stare  through  their  loopholes  on  the 
travelled  Rhine ; 

Suggesting  vaguely  to  the  gazer's 
mind 

A  fancy,  idle  as  the  prairie  wind, 

Of  the  land's  dwellers  in  an  age  un- 
guessed, — 

The  unsung  Jotuns  of  the  mystic 
West. 

Beyond,  the  prairie's  sea-like  swells 
surpass 

The  Tartar's  marvels  of  his  Land  of 
Grass, 

Vast  as  the  sky  against  whose  sunset 
shores 

Wave  after  wave  the  billowy  green- 
ness pours ; 

And,  onward  still,  like  islands  in  that 
main 


222 


THE   PANORAMA. 


Loom   the   rough   peaks   of  many  a 

mountain  chain, 
Whence   east    and  west   a   thousand 

waters  run 
From  winter  lingering  under  summers 

sun. 
And,  still  beyond,  long  lines  of  foam 

and  sand 
Tell   where   Pacific     rolls  his   waves 

a-land, 
From   many  a  wide-lapped  port  and 

land-locked  bay, 
Opening   with  thunderous  pomp  the 

world's  highway 
To  Indian  isfes  of  spice,  and  marts  of 

far  Cathay. 

"  Such.11  said  the  Showman,  as  the 
curtain  fell, 

"  Is  the  new  Canaan  of  our  Israel, — 

The  land  of  promise  to  the  swarming 
North, 

Which,  hive-like,  sends  its  annual  sur- 
plus forth, 

To  the  poor  Southron  on  his  worn-out 
soil, 

Scathed  by  the  curses  of  unnatural 
toil ; 

To  Europe's  exiles  seeking  home  and 
rest, 

And  the  lank  nomads  of  the  wander- 
ing west, 

Who,  asking  neither,  in  their  love  of 
change 

And  the  free  bison's  amplitude  of 
range, 

Rear  the  log  hut,  for  present  shelter 
meant, 

Not  future  comfort,  like  an  Arab's 
tent.11 


Then  spake  a  shrewd  on-looker, 
"  Sir,1'  said  he, 

"  I  like  your  picture,  but  I  fain  would 
see 

A  sketch  of  what  your  promised  land 
will  be 

When,  with  electric  nerve,  and  fiery- 
brained, 


With   Nature's  forces    to   its  chariot 

chained, 
The  future  grasping  by  the  past 

obeyed, 
The  twentieth  century  rounds  a  new 

decade." 

Then   said  the    Showman,   sadly : 

"  He  who  grieves 
Over  the    scattering    of  the    sibyl's 

leaves 
Unwisely  mourns.     Suffice  it,  that  we 

know 
What  needs  must  ripen  from  the  seed 

we  sow ; 
That  present  time  is  but  the  mould 

wherein 

We  cast  the  shapes  of  holiness  and  sin. 
A   painful   watcher    of    the    passing 

hour, 
Its  lust  of  gold,  its  strife  for  place  and 

power ; 
Its  lack  of  manhood,  honor,  reverence, 

truth, 

Wise-thoughted   age,  and  generous- 
hearted  youth ; 
Nor  yet   unmindful   of   each    better 

sign,— 

The  low,  far  lights,  which  on  th1  hori- 
zon shine, 
Like  those  which  sometimes  tremble 

on  the  rim 
Of  clouded  skies  when  day  is  closing 

dim, 
Flashing  athwart  the  purple  spears  of 

rain 
The  hope  of  sunshine  on   the   hills 

again  :  — 
I  need  no  prophet's  word,  nor  shapes 

that  pass 
Like  clouding  shadows  o'er  a  magic 

glass ; 
For   now,   as    ever,   passionless   and 

cold, 
Doth  the  dread  angel  of  the  future 

hold 
Evil   and   good   before  us,   with   no 

voice 
Or  warning  look  to  guide  us  in  our 

choice ; 


THE   PANORAMA. 


223 


With  spectral  hands  outreaching 
through  the  gloom 

The  shadowy  contrasts  of  the  coming 
doom. 

Transferred  from  these,  it  now  remains 
to  give 

The  sun  and  shade  of  Fate's  alterna- 
tive.1' 

Then,  with  a  burst  of  music,  touch- 
ing all 

The  keys  of  thrifty  life,  —  the  mill- 
stream's  fall, 

The  engine's  pant  along  its  quivering 
rails. 

The  anvil's  ring,  the  measured  beat  of 
flails, 

The  sweep  of  scythes,  the  reaper's 
whistled  tune, 

Answering  the  summons  of  the  bells 
of  noon, 

The  woodman's  hail  along  the  river 
shores. 

The  steamboat's  signal,  and  the  dip  of 
oars,  — 

Slowly  the  curtain  rose  from  off  a  land 

Fair  as  God's  garden.  Broad  on 
either  hand 

The  golden  wheat-fields  glimmered  in 
the  sun, 

And  the  tall  maize  its  yellow  tassels 
spun. 

Smooth  highways  set  with  hedge- 
rows living  green, 

With  steepled  towns  through  shaded 
vistas  seen, 

The  school-house  murmuring  with  its 
hive-like  swarm, 

The  brook-bank  whitening  in  the 
grist-mill's  storm. 

The  painted  farm-house  shining 
through  the  leaves 

Of  fruited  orchards  bending  at  its 
eaves, 

Where  live  again,  around  the  West- 
ern hearth, 

The  homely  old-time  virtues  of  the 
North  ; 

Where  the  blithe  housewife  rises  with 
the  day, 


And  well-paid  labor  counts  his  task  a 

play. 
And,    grateful    tokens    of    a     Bible 

free, 

And  the  free  Gospel  of  Humanity, 
Of  diverse  sects  and  differing  names 

the  shrines, 

One  in  their  faith,  whate'er  their  out- 
ward signs, 
Like   varying   strophes   of  the  same 

sweet  hymn 
From    many   a    prairie's    swell    and 

river's  brim, 
A  thousand  church-spires  sanctify  the 

air 
Of  the  calm  Sabbath,  with  their  sign 

of  prayer. 

Like  sudden  nightfall    over  bloom 

and  green 
The  curtain  dropped  :  and,  momently, 

between 
The  clank  of  fetter  and  the  crack  of 

thong, 
Half  sob,  half  laughter,  music  swept 

along,  — 
A  strange  refrain,  whose  idle  words 

and  low, 
Like  drunken  mourners,  kept  the  time 

of  woe ; 

As    if    the    revellers    at  a  masquer- 
ade 
Heard  in  the  distance  funeral  marches 

played. 
Such   music,   dashing  all   his  smiles 

with  tears, 
The  thoughtful  voyager  on  Ponchar- 

train  hears, 
Where,  through  the  noonday  dusk  of 

wooded  shores 
The    negro   boatman,  singing  to  his 

oars, 
With  a  wild  pathos  borrowed  of  his 

wrong 
Redeems  the  jargon  of  his  senseless 

song. 
"Look,"  said  the  Showman,  sternly, 

as  he  rolled 
His  curtain  upward  ;  "  Fate's  reverse 

behold!" 


224 


THE  PANORAMA. 


A  village  straggling  in   loose   dis- 
array 

Of  vulgar  newness,  premature  decay  ; 

A    tavern,   crazy    with    its    whiskey 
brawls, 

With  "Slaves  at  Auction!"  garnish- 
ing its  walls. 

Without,   surrounded    by    a    motley 
crowd, 

The  shrewd-eyed  salesman,  garrulous 
and  loud, 

A   squire   or  colonel  in  his  pride  of 
place, 

Known  at  free  fights,  the  caucus,  and 
the  race, 

Prompt  to  proclaim  his  honor  without 
blot, 

And  silence  doubters  with  a  ten-pace 
shot, 

Mingling   the    negro-driving    bully's 
rant 

With   pious  phrase   and   democratic 
cant, 

Yet  never  scrupling,  with  a  filthy  jest, 

To  sell  the  infant  from  its  mother's 
breast, 

Break   through   all   ties  of  wedlock, 
home,  and  kin, 

Yield  shrinking  girlhood  up  to  gray- 
beard  sin ; 

Sell  all  the  virtues   with   his  human 
stock, 

The  Christian  graces  on  his  auction- 
block, 

And  coolly  count  on  shrewdest  bar- 
gains driven 

In  hearts  regenerate,  and  in  souls  for- 
given! 

Look   once   again !      The    moving 

canvas  shows 

A  slave  plantation's  slovenly  repose, 
Where,  in  rude  cabins  rotting  midst 

their  weeds, 
The  human  chattel  eats,  and  sleeps, 

and  breeds ; 
And,  held  a  brute,  in  practice,  as  in 

law, 
Becomes  in  fact  the  thing  he's  taken 

for. 


There,  early  summoned  to  the  hemp 

and  corn, 
The  nursing  mother  leaves  her  child 

new-born  ; 
There    haggard  sickness,   weak  and 

deathly  faint, 
Crawls  to  his  task,  and  fears  to  make 

complaint ; 
And  sad-eyed   Rachels,   childless   in 

decay, 
Weep  for  their  lost  ones  sold  and  torn 

away! 
Of  ampler  size  the  master's  dwelling 

stands, 
In  shabby  keeping  with  his  half-tilled 

lands,  — 
The  gates   unhinged,   the  yard  with 

Veeds  unclean, 
The   cracked   veranda  with   a    tipsy 

lean. 
Without,  loose-scattered  like  a  wreck 

adrift, 
Signs   of  misrule  and  tokens  of  un- 

thrift ; 
Within,     profusion     to      discomfort 

joined, 

The  listless  body  and  the  vacant  mind  ; 
The    fear,    the   hate,   the    theft    and 

falsehood,  born 
In  menial  hearts  of  toil,  and  stripes, 

and  scorn ! 
There,  all  the  vices,  which,  like  birds 

obscene, 
Batten    on    slavery    loathsome    and 

unclean, 
From  the  foul  kitchen  to  the  parlor 

rise, 

Pollute  the  nursery  where  the  child- 
heir  lies, 

Taint  infant  lips  beyond  all  after  cure, 
With  the  fell  poison  of  a  breast  im- 
pure; 
Touch  boyhood's  passions   with  the 

breath  of  flame, 
From   girlhood's   instincts   steal    the 

blush  of  shame. 
So   swells,   from    low    to   high,  from 

weak  to  strong, 
The    tragic    chorus    of    the    baleful 

wrong ; 


THE   PANORAMA. 


225 


Guilty    or    guiltless,    all    within    its 

range 
Feel   the   blind    justice   of   its    sure 

revenge. 

Still  scenes  like  these  the  moving 

chart  reveals. 
Up    the    long   western   steppes    the 

blighting  steals ; 

Down  the  Pacific  slope  the  evil  Fate 
Glides  like  a  shadow  to  the  Golden 

Gate : 
From  sea  to  sea  the  drear  eclipse  is 

thrown, 
From  sea  to  sea  the  Mauvaises  Terres 

have  grown, 
A  belt  of  curses  on  the  New  World's 

zone! 

The  curtain  fell.  All  drew  a  freer 
breath, 

As  men  are  wont  to  do  when  mourn- 
ful death 

Is  covered  from  their  sight.  The 
Showman  stood 

With  drooping  brow  in  sorrow's  atti- 
tude 

One  moment,  then  with  sudden  ges- 
ture shook 

His  loose  hair  back,  and  with  the  air 
and  look 

Of  one  who  felt,  beyond  the  narrow 
stage  _ 

And  listening  group,  the  presence  of 
the  age, 

And  heard  the  footsteps  of  the  things 
to  be, 

Poured  out  his  soul  in  earnest  words 
and  free. 

"  O  friends ! "  he  said,  "  in  this  poor 
trick  of  paint 

You  see  the  semblance,  incomplete 
and  faint, 

Of  the  two-fronted  Future,  which,  to- 
day, _ 

Stands  dim  and  silent,  waiting  in 
your  way. 

To-day,  your  servant,  subject  to  your 
will ; 

Q 


To-morrow,  master,  or  for  good  or  ill. 
If  the  dark  face  of  Slavery  on  you 

turns, 
If  the  mad   curse   its   paper  barrier 

spurns, 
If  the  world  granary  of  the  West  is 

made 
The  last  foul  market  of  the  slaver's 

trade, 
Why  rail  at  fate?     The  mischief  is 

your  own. 
Why   hate   your   neighbor?      Blame 

yourselves  alone! 

"Men  of  the  North!     The  South 

you  charge  with  wrong 
Is  weak  and  poor,  while  you  are  rich 

and  strong. 
If  questions,  —  idle   and    absurd    as 

those 

The  old-time  monks  and  Paduan  doc- 
tors chose, — 
Mere  ghosts  of  questions,  tariffs,  and 

dead  banks, 
And  scarecrow  pontiffs,  never  broke 

your  ranks, 
Your  thews  united  could,  at  once,  roll 

back 

The  jostled  nation  to  its  primal  track. 
Nay,  were  you  simply  steadfast,  manly, 

just, 
True  to  the  faith  your  fathers  left  in 

trust, 
If  stainless  honor  outweighed  in  your 

scale 

A  codfish  quintal  or  a  factory  bale, 
Full  many  a  noble  heart,    (and  such 

remain 
In  all  the  South,  like  Lot  in  Siddim's 

plain, 
Who  watch  and  wait,  and  from  the 

wrong's  control 
Keep  white  and  pure  their  chastity  of 

soul,) 
Now  sick  to  loathing  of  your  weak 

complaints, 
Your  tricks  as  sinners,  and  your  prayers 

as  saints, 
Would  half-way  meet  the  frankness  of 

your  tone, 


226 


THE   PANORAMA. 


And  feel  their  pulses  beating  with  your 
own. 

''The  North!  the  South!  no  geo- 
graphic line 

Can  fix  the  boundary  or  the  point 
define, 

Since  each  with  each  so  closely  inter- 
blends, 

Where  Slavery  rises,  and  where  Free- 
dom ends. 

Beneath  your  rocks  the  roots,  far- 
reaching,  hide 

Of  the  fell  Upas  on  the  Southern  side  ; 

The  tree  whose  branches  in  your  north 
winds  wave 

Dropped  its  young  blossoms  on  Mount 
Vernon's  grave ; 

The  nursling  growth  of  Monticello's 
crest 

Is  now  the  glory  of  the  free  North- 
west ; 

To  the  wise  maxims  of  her  olden 
school 

Virginia  listened  from  thy  lips,  Ran- 
toul ; 

Seward's  words  of  power,  and  Sum- 
ner's  fresh  renown, 

Flow  from  the  pen  that  Jefferson  laid 
down! 

And  when,  at  length,  her  years  of 
madness  o'er, 

Like  the  crowned  grazer  on  Euphrates' 
shore. 

From  her  long  lapse  to  savagery,  her 
mouth 

Bitter  with  baneful  herbage,  turns  the 
South, 

Resumes  her  old  attire,  and  seeks  to 
smooth 

Her  unkempt  tresses  at  the  glass  of 
truth, 

Her  early  faith  shall  find  a  tongue 
again, 

New  Wythes  and  Pinckneys  swell  that 
old  refrain, 

Her  sons  with  yours  renew  the  ancient 
.  pact, 

The  myth  of  Union  prove  at  last  a 
fact! 


Then,  if  one  murmur  mars  the  wide 

content, 
Some  Northern  lip  will  drawl  the  last 

dissent, 
Some  Union-saving  patriot   of  your 

own 
Lament  to  find  his  occupation  gone. 

"  Grant  that  the  North 's  insulted, 
scorned,  betrayed, 

O'erreached  in  bargains  with  her 
neighbor  made, 

When  selfish  thrift  and  party  held  the 
scales 

For  peddling  dicker,  not  for  honest 
sales,  — 

Whom  shall  we  strike?  Who  most 
deserves  our  blame? 

The  braggart  Southron,  open  in  his 
aim, 

Arid  bold  as  wicked,  crashing  straight 
through  all 

That  bars  his  purpose,  like  a  cannon- 
ball? 

Or  the  mean  traitor,  breathing  north- 
ern air, 

With  nasal  speech  and  puritanic  hair, 

Whose  cant  the  loss  of  principle  sur- 
vives, 

As  the  mud-turtle  e'en  its  head  out- 
lives ; 

Who,  caught,  chin-buried  in  some 
foul  offence, 

Puts  on  a  look  of  injured  innocence, 

And  consecrates  his  baseness  to  the 
cause 

Of  constitution,  union,  and  the  laws? 

"  Praise  to  the  place-man  who  can 

hold  aloof 

His  still  unpurchased  manhood,  office- 
proof; 

Who  on  his  round  of  duty  walks  erect, 
And  leaves  it  only  rich  in  self-respect, — 
As  MORE  maintained  his  virtue's  lofty 

port 
In  the  Eighth  Henry's  base  and  bloody 

court. 

But,  if  exceptions  here  and  there  are 
found, 


THE   PANORAMA. 


227 


Who  tread  thus  safely  on  enchanted 

ground, 
The  normal  type,  the  fitting  symbol 

still 
Of  those   who   fatten  at  the   public 

mill, 
Is  the  chained  dog  beside  his  master's 

door, 
Or  CIRCE'S  victim,  feeding  on  all  four! 

"  Give  me  the  heroes  who,  at  tuck 
of  drum, 

Salute  thy  staff,  immortal  Quattlebum! 

Or  they  who,  doubly  armed  with  vote 
and  gun, 

Following  thy  lead,  illustrious  Atchi- 
son, 

Theiu  drunken  franchise  shift  from 
scene  to  scene. 

As  tile-beard  Jourdan  did  his  guillo- 
tine!— 

Rather  than  him  who,  born  beneath 
our  skies, 

To  Slavery's  hand  its  supplest  tool 
supplies,  — 

The  party  felon  whose  unblushing  face 

Looks  from  the  pillory  of  his  bribe  of 
place, 

And  coolly  makes  a  merit  of  clis- 
grace,— 

Points  to  the  footmarks  of  indignant 
scorn, 

Shows  the  deep  scars  of  satire's  toss- 
ing horn  ; 

And  passes  to  his  credit  side  the  sum 

Of  all  that  makes  a  scoundrel's  martyr- 
dom ! 

"  Bane  of  the  North,  its  canker  and 

its  moth !  — 
These  modern  Esaus,  bartering  rights 

for  broth ! 
Taxing  our  justice,  with  their  double 

claim, 
As  fools  for  pity,  and  as  knaves  for 

blame ; 
Who,  urged  by  party,  sect,  or  trade, 

within 
The  fell  embrace  of  Slavery's  sphere 

of  sin, 


Part  at  the  outset  with  their  moral 

sense, 
The  watchful  angel   set  for   Truth's 

defence ; 
Confound  all  contrasts,  good  and  ill ; 

reverse 
The  poles  of  life,  its  blessing  and  its 

curse ; 

And  lose  thenceforth  from  their  per- 
verted sight 
The  eternal  difference  'twixt  the  wrong 

and  right ; 

To  them  the  Law  is  but  the  iron  span 
That   girds    the   ankles  of  imbruted 

man  ; 

To  them  the  Gospel  has  no  higher  aim 
Than  simple  sanction  of  the  master's 

claim, 
Dragged   in   the   slime   of   Slavery's 

loathsome  trail, 
Like  Chatter's  Bible  at  his  ass's  tail ! 

"  Such  are  the  men  who,  with  in- 
stinctive dread, 
Whenever  Freedom  lifts  her  drooping 

head, 
Make  prophet-tripods  of  their  office- 

stools, 
And  scare  the  nurseries  and  the  village 

schools 
With  dire  presage  of  ruin  grim  and 

great, 
A  broken   Union   and    a   foundered 

State! 
Such  are  the  patriots,  self-bound  to 

the  stake 
Of  office,  martyrs  for  their  country's 

sake: 
Who  fill  themselves  the  hungry  jaws 

of  Fate, 
And  by  their  loss  of  manhood  save 

the  State. 
In  the  wide  gulf  themselves  like  Cur- 

tius  throw, 
And    test    the    virtues    of    cohesive 

dough  ; 
As  tropic  monkeys,  linking  heads  and 

tails, 
Bridge  o'er  some  torrent  of  Ecuador's 

vales ! 


228 


THE   PANORAMA. 


"  Such  are  the  men  who  in   your 

churches  rave 
To  swearing-point,  at  mention  of  the 

slave, 

When  some  poor  parson,  haply  un- 
awares, 
Stammers    of  freedom    in    his    timid 

prayers ; 
Who,  if  some  foot-sore  negro  through 

the  town 
Steals  northward,  volunteer  to   hunt 

him  down. 

Or,  if  some  neighbor,  flying  from  dis- 
ease, 
Courts  the  mild  balsam  of  the  Southern 

breeze, 
With  hue  and  cry  pursue  him  on  his 

track, 
And   write  Free-soiler   on   the  poor 

man's  back. 
Such  are  the  men  who  leave  the  ped- 

ler's  cart, 
While  faring  South,  to  learn  the  driver's 

art, 
Or,  in   white  neckcloth,  soothe  with 

pious  aim 
The  graceful  sorrows  of  some  languid 

dame, 

Who,  from  the  wreck  of  her  bereave- 
ment, saves 
The  double  charm  of  widowhood  and 

slaves !  — 
Pliant  and  apt,  they  lose  no  chance  to 

show 

To  what  base  depths  apostasy  can  go  ; 
Outdo  the  natives  in  their  readiness 
To  roast  a  negro,  or  to  mob  a  press ; 
Poise    a    tarred    schoolmate    on    the 

lyncher's  rail, 
Or  make  a  bonfire  of  their  birthplace 

mail ! 

"  So  some  poor  wretch,  whose  lips 
no  longer  bear 

The  sacred  burden  of  his  mother's 
prayer, 

By  fear  impelled,  or  lust  of  gold  en- 
ticed, 

Turns  to  the  Crescent  from  the  Cross 
of  Christ, 


And,  over-acting  in  superfluous  zeal, 

Crawls  prostrate  where  the  faithful 
only  kneel, 

Out-howls  the  Dervish,  hugs  his  rags 
to  court 

The  squalid  Santon's  sanctity  of  dirt ; 

And,  when  beneath  the  city  gateway's 
span 

Files  slow  and  long  the  Meccan  cara- 
van, 

And  through  its  midst,  pursued  by 
Islam's  prayers, 

The  prophet's  Word  some  favored 
camel  bears, 

The  marked  apostate  has  his  place 
assigned 

The  Koran-bearer's  sacred  rump  be- 
hind, 

With  brush  and  pitcher  following, 
grave  and  mute, 

In  meek  attendance  on  the  holy 
brute ! 

"Men  of  the  North!  beneath  your 

very  eyes, 
By  hearth  and  home,  your  real  danger 

lies. 
Still  day  by  day  some  hold  of  freedom 

falls, 
Through  home-bred  traitors  fed  within 

its  walls.  — 
Men  whom  yourselves  with  vote  and 

purse  sustain, 
At    posts    of    honor,    influence,    and 

gain; 
The  right  of  Slavery  to  your  sons  to 

teach, 
And  "  South-side "  Gospels   in  your 

pulpits  preach, 
Transfix  the  Law  to  ancient  freedom 

dear 
On  the  sharp  point  of  her  subverted 

spear, 

And  imitate  upon  her  cushion  plump 
The  mad  Missourian  lynching  from 

his  stump ; 
Or,  in  your  name,  upon  the  Senate's 

floor 
Yield  up  to  Slavery  all  it  asks,  and 

more ; 


THE   PANORAMA. 


229 


And,  ere  your  dull  eyes  open  to  the 

cheat, 
Sell  your  old  homestead  underneath* 

your  feet ! 

While  such  as  these  your  loftiest  out- 
looks hold, 
While  truth  and  conscience  with  your 

wares  are  sold, 
While  grave-browed  merchants  band 

themselves  to  aid 
An  annual  man-hunt  for  their  Southern 

trade, 
What  moral  power  within  your  grasp 

remains 
To  stay  the  mischief  on  Nebraska's 

plains  ?  — 
High  as  the  tides  of  generous  impulse 

flow, 

As  far  rolls  back  the  selfish  undertow  : 
And  all  your  brave  resolves,  though 

aimed  as  true 
As    the    horse-pistol    Balmawhapple 

drew, 
To  Slavery's  bastions  lend  as  slight  a 

shock 
As  the  poor  trooper's  shot  to  Stirling 

rock! 

"  Yet,  while  the  need  of  Freedom's 

cause  demands 
The  earnest  efforts  of  your  hearts  and 

hands, 
Urged  by  all  motives  that  can  prompt 

the  heart 
To  prayer  and   toil  and   manhood's 

manliest  part ; 
Though    to   the    soul's    deep   tocsin 

Nature  joins 
The  warning  whisper  of  her  Orphic 

pines, 

The  north-wind's  anger,  and  the  south- 
wind's  sigh, 
The    midnight    sword-dance    of    the 

northern  sky, 
And.  to  the  ear  that  bends  above  the 

sod 
Of  the  green   grave-mounds   in   the 

Fields  of  God, 
In  low,  deep  murmurs  of  rebuke  or 

cheer, 


The  land's  dead  fathers  speak  their 
hope  or  fear, 

Yet  let  not  Passion  wrest  from  Rea- 
son's hand 

The  guiding  rein  and  symbol  of  com- 
mand. 

Blame  not  the  caution  proffering  to 
your  zeal 

A  well-meant  drag  upon  its  hurrying 
wheel ; 

Nor  chide  the  man  whose  honest  doubt 
extends 

To  the  means  only,  not  the  righteous 
ends  ; 

Nor  fail  to  weigh  the  scruples  and  the 
fears 

Of  milder  natures  and  serener  years. 

In  the  long  strife  with  evil  which 
began 

With  the  first  lapse  of  new-created 
man, 

Wisely  and  well  has  Providence  as- 
signed 

To  each  his  part,  —  some  forward, 
some  behind ; 

And  they,  too,  serve  who  temper  and 
restrain 

The  o'erwarm  heart  that  sets  on  fire 
the  brain. 

True  to  yourselves,  feed  Freedom's 
altar-flame 

With  what  you  have ;  let  others  do 
the  same. 

Spare  timid  doubters  ;  set  like  flint 
your  face 

Against  the  self-sold  knaves  of  gain 
and  place : 

Pity  the  weak ;  but  with  unsparing 
hand 

Cast  out  the  traitors  who  infest  the 
land,  — 

From  bar,  press,  pulpit,  cast  them 
everywhere, 

By  dint  of  fasting,  if  you  fail  by  prayer. 

And  in  their  place  bring  men  of  an- 
tique mould, 

Like  the  grave  fathers  of  your  Age  of 
Gold,- 

Statesmen  like  those  who  sought  the 
primal  fount 


230 


THE   PANORAMA. 


Of  righteous  law,  the  Sermon  on  the 

Mount ; 
Lawyers  who  prize,  like  Quincy,  (to 

our  day 
Still    spared,    Heaven    bless    him!) 

honor  more  than  pay, 
And  Christian  jurists,  starry-pure,  like 

Jay; 

Preachers  like  Woolman,  or  like  them 
who  bore 

The  faith  of  Wesley  to  our  Western 
shore, 

And  held  no  convert  genuine  till  he 
broke 

Alike  his  servants'  and  the  Devil's 
yoke; 

And  priests  like  him  who  Newport's 
market  trod, 

And  o'er  its  slave-ships  shook  the 
bolts  of  God! 

So  shall  your  power,  with  a  wise  pru- 
dence used, 

Strong  but  forbearing,  firm  but  not 
abused, 

In  kindly  keeping  with  the  good  of 
all, 

The  nobler  maxims  of  the  past  re- 
call, 

Her  natural  home-born  right  to  Free- 
dom give, 

And  leave  her  foe  his  robber-right,  — 
to  live. 

Live,  as  the  snake  does  in  his  noisome 
fen! 

Live,  as  the  wolf  does  in  his  bone- 
strewn  den! 

Live,  clothed  with  cursing  like  a  robe 
of  flame, 

The  focal  point  of  million-fingered 
shame ! 

Live,  till  the  Southron,  who,  with  all 
his  faults, 

Has  manly  instincts,  in  his  pride  re- 
volts, 

Dashes  from  off  him,  midst  the  glad 
world's  cheers, 

The  hideous  nightmare  of  his  dream 
of  years, 

And  lifts,  self-prompted,  with  his  own 
right  hand, 


The  vile  encumbrance  from  his  glo- 
rious land ! 

"  So,  wheresoe'er  our  destiny  sends 

forth 
Its  widening  circles  to  the  South  or 

North, 
Where'er  our  banner  flaunts  beneath 

the  stars 
Its  mimic  splendors  and  its  cloudlike 

bars, 

There  shall  Free  Labor's  hardy  chil- 
dren stand 
The  equal  sovereigns  of  a  slaveless 

land. 
And  when  at   last  the  hunted  bison 

tires, 
And  dies  o'ertaken  by  the  squatter's 

fires  ; 
And  westward,  wave   on   wave,   the 

living  flood 
Breaks  on  the  snow-line  of  majestic 

Hood ; 
And  lonely  Shasta  listening  hears  the 

tread 
Of  Europe's  fair-haired  children,  Hes- 

per-led ; 
And,  gazing  downward  through    his 

hoar-locks,  sees 
The   tawny   Asian    climb    his   giant 

knees, 
The  Eastern  sea  shall  hush  his  waves 

to  hear 
Pacific's  surf-beat  answer  Freedom's 

cheer, 
And  one  long  rolling  fire  of  triumph 

run 
Between  the  sunrise  and  the  sunset 

gun!" 


My  task  is  done.  The  Showman 
and  his  show, 

Themselves  but  shadows,  into  shad- 
ows go  ; 

And,  if  no  song  of  idlesse  I  have 
sung, 

Nor  tints  of  beauty  on  the  canvas 
flung,  — 


SUMMER  BY  THE   LAKESIDE. 


231 


If  the  harsh  numbers  grate  on  tender 

ears, 
And  the  rough  picture  overwrought 

appears,  — 
With  deeper  coloring,  with  a  sterner 

blast, 
Before   my   soul  a  voice  and  vision 

passed. 
Such  as  might  Milton's  jarring  trump 

require, 
Or  glooms  of  Dante  fringed  with  lurid 

fire. 
O,  not  of  choice,  for  themes  of  public 

wrong 
I  leave  the  green  and  pleasant  paths 

of  song,  — 
The  mild,  sweet  words  which  soften 

and  adorn, 
For  griding  taunt  and  bitter  laugh  of 

scorn. 
More  dear  to  me  some  song  of  private 

worth, 
Some    homely     idyl    of  my    native 

North, 
Some  summer  pastoral  of  her  inland 

vales 


And     sea-brown     hamlets,     through 

whose  misty  gales 
Flit   the   dim  ghosts  of  unreturning 

sails,  — 
Lost  barks  at  parting  hung  from  stem 

to  helm 
With  prayers  of  love  like  dreams  on 

Virgil's  elm  ; 
Nor  private  grief  nor  malice  hold  my 

pen; 

I  owe  but  kindness  to  my  fellow-men. 
And,  South  or  North,  wherever  hearts 

of  prayer 
Their    woes    and  weakness    to    our 

Father  bear, 
Wherever  fruits  of  Christian  love  are 

found 

In  holy  lives,  to  me  is  holy  ground. 
But  the  time  passes.     It  were  vain  to 

crave 
A   late   indulgence.     What   I    had  I 

gave. 
Forget    the    poet,   but    his  warning 

heed, 
And  shame  his  poor  word  with  your 

nobler  deed. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


SUMMER   BY  THE  LAKESIDE. 

I.    NOON. 

WHITE  clouds,  whose  shadows  haunt 

the  deep, 
Light    mists,   whose    soft    embraces 

keep 
The  sunshine  on  the  hills  asleep ! 

O  isles  of  calm !  —  O  dark,  still  wood ! 
And  stiller  skies  that  overbrood 
Your  rest  with  deeper  quietude ! 

O  shapes  and  hues,  dim  beckoning, 

through 

Yon  mountain  gaps,  my  longing  view 
Beyond  the  purple  and  the  blue, 


To  stiller  sea  and  greener  land, 
And  softer  lights  and  airs  more  bland, 
And  skies,  —  the   hollow     of    God's 
hand! 

Transfused  through  you,  O  mountain 

friends ! 

With  mine  your  solemn  spirit  blends, 
And  life  no  more  hath  separate  ends. 

I  read  each  misty  mountain  sign, 
I  know  the  voice  of  wave  and  pine, 
And  I  am  yours,  and  ye  are  mine. 

Life's  burdens  fall,  its  discords  cease, 

I  lapse  into  the  glad  release 

Of  nature's  own  exceecjing  peace. 


232 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


O,  welcome  calm  of  heart  and  mind! 
As  falls  yon  fir-tree's  loosened  rind 
To  leave  a  tenderer  growth  behind, 

So  fall  the  weary  years  away ; 
A  child  again,  my  head  I  lay 
Upon  the  lap  of  this  sweet  day. 

This    western    wind    hath     Lethean 

powers, 

Yon  noonday  cloud  nepenthe  showers, 
The  lake  is  white  with  lotus-flowers! 

Even  Duty's  voice  is  faint  and  low, 
And  slumberous  Conscience,  waking 

slow, 
Forgets  her  blotted  scroll  to  show. 

The  Shadow  which  pursues  us  all, 
Whose  ever-nearing  steps  appall, 
Whose  voice  we  hear  behind  us  call,  — 

That  Shadow  blends  with  mountain 

g^y? 
It  speaks   but  what  the  light  waves 

say,  — 
Death  walks  apart  from  Fear  to-day ! 

Rocked   on   her  breast,   these   pines 

and  I 

Alike  on  Nature's  love  rely  ; 
And  equal  seems  to  live  or  die. 

Assured  that  He  whose  presence  fills 
With  light  the  spaces  of  these  hills 
No  evil  to  his  creatures  wills, 

The  simple  faith  remains,  that  He 
Will  do,  whatever  that  may  be, 
The  best  alike  for  man  and  tree. 

What  mosses  over  one  shall  grow, 
What  light  and  life  the  other  know, 
Unanxious,  leaving  Him  to  show. 

II.     EVENING. 

Yon  mountain's   side  is   black   with 

night, 

While,  broad-orbed,  o'er  its  gleam- 
ing crown 


The  moon,  slow-rounding  into  sight, 
On   the    hushed   inland  sea  looks 
down. 

How  start  to  light  the  clustering  isles, 
Each  silver-hemmed!  How  sharply 
show 

The  shadows  of  their  rocky  piles, 
And  tree-tops  in  the  wave  below ! 

How  far  and  strange  the  mountains 

seem, 
Dim-looming  through  the  pale,  still 

light! 

The  vague,  vast  grouping  of  a  dream, 
They  stretch  into  the  solemn  night. 

Beneath,    lake,   wood,   and    peopled 

vale, 
Hushed   by   that    presence    grand 

and  grave, 
Are  silent,  save  the  cricket's  wail, 

And  low  response  of  leaf  and  wave. 
• 
Fair  scenes!  whereto  the   Day   and 

Night 

Make  rival  love,  I  leave  ye  soon, 
What  time  before  the  eastern  light 
The  pale  ghost  of  the  setting  moon 

Shall  hide  behind  yon  rocky  spines, 
And  the  young  archer,  Morn,  shall 

break 

His  arrows  on  the  mountain  pines, 
And,    golden-sandalled,   walk    the 
lake! 

Farewell!  around  this  smiling  bay 
Gay-hearted    Health,  and   Life   in 

bloom, 
With   lighter   steps   than  mine,  may 

stray 
In  radiant  summers  yet  to  come. 

But  none  shall  more  regretful  leave 
These  waters  and  these  hills  than 
I: 

Or,  distant,  fonder  dream  how  eve 
Or  dawn  is  painting  wave  and  sky ; 


THE   HERMIT   OF  THE  THEBAID. 


233 


How  rising  moons  shine  sad  and  mild 
On  wooded  isle  and  silvering  bay ; 

Or  setting  suns  beyond  the  piled 
And  purple  mountains  lead  the  day  ; 

Nor  laughing  girl,  nor  bearding  boy, 
Nor  full-pulsed  manhood,  lingering 
here. 


Shall  add,  to  life's  abounding  joy, 
The   charmed   repose   to  sufferi 


dear. 


termg 


Still  waits  kind  Nature  to  impart 
Her  choicest  gifts  to  such  as  gain 

An  entrance  to  her  loving  heart 
Through   the   sharp   discipline    of 
pain. 

Forever  from  the  Hand  that  takes 
One  blessing  from  us  others  fall ; 

And,  soon  or  late,  our  Father  makes 
His  perfect  recompense  to  all! 

O,  watched  by  Silence  and  the  Night, 
And  folded  in  the  strong  embrace 

Of  the  great  mountains,  with  the  light 
Of    the   sweet    heavens  upon  thy 
face, 

Lake   of   the   Northland!     keep   thy 

dower 

Of  beauty  still,  and  while  above 
Thy     solemn     mountains     speak    of 

power, 
Be  thou  the  mirror  of  God's  love. 


THE  HERMIT    OF    THE    THE- 
BAID. 

O  STRONG,  up  well  ing  prayers  of  faith, 
From  inmost  founts  of  life  ye  start,  — 

The  spirit's  pulse,  the  vital  breath 
Of  soul  and  heart! 

From  pastoral  toil,  from  traffic's  din, 
Alone,  in  crowds,  at  home,  abroad, 

Unheard  of  man,  ye  enter  in 
The  ear  of  God. 


Ye  brook  no  forced  and  measured 
tasks, 

Nor  weary  rote,  nor  formal  chains  ; 
The  simple  heart,  that  freely  asks 

In  love,  obtains. 

For  man  the  living  temple  is  : 
The  mercy-seat  and  cherubim, 

And  all  the  holy  mysteries, 
He  bears  with  him. 

And  most  avails  the  prayer  of  love, 
Which,    wordless,  shapes   itself  in 
deeds, 

And  wearies  Heaven  for  naught  above 
Our  common  needs. 

Which  brings  to  God's  all-perfect  will 
That  trust  of  his  undoubting  child 

Whereby  all  seeming  good  and  ill 
Are  reconciled. 

And,  seeking  not  for  special  signs 
Of  favor,  is  content  to  fall 

Within  the  providence  which  shines 
And  rains  on  all. 

Alone,  the  Thebaid  hermit  leaned 
At  noontime  o'er  the  sacred  word. 

Was  it  an  angel  or  a  fiend 
Whose  voice  he  heard? 

It  broke  the  desert's  hush  of  awe, 
A    human     utterance,   sweet     and 
mild ; 

And,  looking  up,  the  hermit  saw 
A  little  child. 

A  child,  with  wonder-widened  eyes, 
O'erawed  and  troubled  by  the  sight 

Of  hot,  red  sands,  and  brazen  skies, 
And  anchorite. 

"What   dost   thou   here,  poor  man? 

No  shade 
Of  cool,   green   doums,  nor  grass, 

nor  well, 
Nor  corn,  nor  vines."     The   hermit 

said  : 
"  With  God  I  dwell. 


234 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


"Alone  with  Him  in  this  great  calm, 
I  live  not  by  the  outward  sense ; 

My  Nile  his  love,  my  sheltering  palm 
His  providence." 

The  child  gazed  round  him.     "  Does 

God  live 
Here   only?  —  where   the    desert's 

rim 

Is  green  with  corn,  at  morn  and  eve, 
We  pray  to  Him. 

"My  brother  tills  beside  the  Nile 
His  little  field  :  beneath  the  leaves 

My  sisters  sit  and  spin  the  while, 
My  mother  weaves. 

"  And  when  the  millet's  ripe  heads 
fall, 

And  all  the  bean-field  hangs  in  pod, 
My  mother  smiles,  and  says  that  all 

Are  gifts  from  God. 

"And  when  to  share  our  evening 
meal, 

She  calls  the  stranger  at  the  door, 
She  says  God  fills  the  hands  that  deal 

Food  to  the  poor." 

Adown  the  hermit's  wasted  cheeks 
Glistened  the  flow  of  human  tears  ; 

"Dear  Lord!"   he   said,  u  thy   angel 

speaks, 
Thy  servant  hears." 

Within  his  arms  the  child  he  took, 
And  thought  of  home  and  life  with 
men ; 

And  all  his  pilgrim  feet  forsook 
Returned  again. 

The  palmy  shadows  cool  and  long, 
The  eyes  that  smiled  through  lavish 

locks, 

Home's     cradle-hymn    and    harvest- 
song, 
And  bleat  of  flocks. 

"O  child!"  he  said,  "thou  teachest 
me 


There  is  no  place  where  God  is  not ; 
That  love  will  make,  where'er  it  be, 
A  holy  spot." 

He  rose  from  off  the  desert  sand, 
And,  leaning  on  his  staff  of  thorn, 

Went,  with  the  young  child,  hand-in- 
hand, 
Like  night  with  morn. 

They  crossed    the   desert's    burning 

line, 
And  heard  the  palm-tree's  rustling 

fan, 

The  Nile-bird's  cry,  the  low  of  kine, 
And  voice  of  man. 

Unquestioning,  his  childish  guide 
He  followed  as  the  small  hand  led 

To  where  a  woman,  gentle-eyed, 
Her  distaff  fed. 

She  rose,  she  clasped  her  truant  boy, 
She  thanked  the  stranger  with  her 
eyes. 

The  hermit  gazed  in  doubt  and  joy 
And  dumb  surprise. 

And  lo!  —  with  sudden  warmth  and 
light 

A  tender  memory  thrilled  his  frame  ; 
New-born,  the  world-lost  anchorite 

A  man  became. 

"  O  sister  of  El  Zara's  race, 

Behold    me!  —  had    we     not    one 

mother?" 
She  gazed  into  the  stranger's  face  ;  — 

"Thou  art  my  brother?  " 

"O  kin  of  blood! — Thy  life  of  use 
And    patient    trust    is   more  than 
mine ; 

And  wiser  than  the  gray  recluse 
This  child  of  thine. 

"  For,  taught  of  him  whom  God  hath 

sent, 

That    toil   is    praise,   and    love   is 
prayer, 


BURNS. 


235 


I  come,  life's  cares  and  pains  content 
With  thee  to  share." 

Even  as  his  foot  the  threshold  crossed, 
The  hermit's  better  life  began  ; 

Its  holiest  saint  the  Thebaid  lost, 
And  found  a  man! 


BURNS. 

ON  RECEIVING  A    SPRIG    OF    HEATHER 
IN   BLOSSOM. 

No  more  these  simple  flowers  belong 
To  Scottish  maid  and  lover ; 

Sown  in  the  common  soil  of  song, 
They  bloom  the  wide  world  over. 

In    smiles    and    tears,    in    sun    and 
showers, 

The  minstrel  and  the  heather, 
The  deathless  singer  and  the  flowers 

He  sang  of  live  together. 

Wild  heather-bells  and  Robert  Burns! 

The  moorland  flower  and  peasant! 
How,  at  their  mention,  memory  turns 

Her  pages  old  and  pleasant! 

The  gray  sky  wears  again  its  gold 

And  purple  of  adorning, 
And    manhood's    noonday    shadows 
hold 

The  dews  of  boyhood's  morning. 

The  dews  that  washed  the  dust  and 

soil 

From  off  the  wings  of  pleasure, 
The  sky,  that  flecked  the  ground  of 

toil 
With  golden  threads  of  leisure. 

I  call  to  mind  the  summer  day, 
The  early  harvest  mowing, 

The  sky  with  sun  and  clouds  at  play, 
And  flowers  with  breezes  blowing. 

I  hear  the  blackbird  in  the  corn, 
The  locust  in  the  haying ; 


And,  like  the  fabled  hunter's  horn, 
Old  tunes  my  heart  is  playing. 

How  oft  that  day,  with  fond  delay, 
I  sought  the  maple's  shadow, 

And  sang  with  Burns  the  hours  away, 
Forgetful  of  the  meadow! 

Bees  hummed,  birds  twittered,  over- 
head 

I  heard  the  squirrels  leaping, 
The  good  dog  listened  while  1  read, 

And  wagged  his  tail  in  keeping. 

I  watched  him  while  in  sportive  mood 
I  read  "  The  Two.  Dogs'1 "  story, 

And  half  believed  he  understood 
The  poet's  allegory. 

Sweet  day,  sweet  songs!  — The  golden 

hours 

Grew  brighter  for  that  singing, 
From  brook   and  bird  and   meadow 

flowers 
A  dearer  welcome  bringing. 

New    light     on     home-seen     Nature 
beamed, 

New  glory  over  Woman  ; 
And  daily  life  and  duty  seemed 

No  longer  poor  and  common. 

I  woke  to  find  the  simple  truth 

Of  fact  and  feeling  better 
Than   all    the   dreams   that  held  my 
youth 

A  still  repining  debtor : 

That  Nature  gives  her  handmaid,  Art, 
The  themes  of  sweet  discoursing ; 

The  tender  idyls  of  the  heart 
In  every  tongue  rehearsing. 

Why  dream  of  lands  of  gold  and  pearl, 
Of  loving  knight  and  lady, 

When  farmer  boy  and  barefoot  girl 
Were  wandering  there  already? 

I  saw  through  all  familiar  things 
The  romance  underlying ; 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


The  joys  and  griefs  that  plume   the 

wings 
Of  Fancy  skyward  flying. 

I  saw  the  same  blithe  day  return, 
The  same  sweet  fall  of  even, 

That  rose  on  wooded  Craigie-burn, 
And  sank  on  crystal  Devon. 

I  matched  with  Scotland's    heathery 
hills 

The  sweet-brier  and  the  clover ; 
With  Ayr  and  Doon,  my  native  rills, 

Their  wood-hymns  chanting  over. 

O'er  rank  and  pomp,  as  he  had  seen, 

I  saw  the  Man  uprising ; 
No  longer  common  or  unclean, 

The  child  of  God's  baptizing ! 

With  clearer  eyes  1  saw  the  worth 

Of  life  among  the  lowly ; 
The  Bible  at  his  Cotter's  hearth 

Had  made  my  own  more  holy. 

And  if  at  times  an  evil  strain, 
To  lawless  love  appealing, 

Broke  in  upon  the  sweet  refrain 
Of  pure  and  healthful  feeling, 

It  died  upon  the  eye  and  ear, 
No  inward  answer  gaining ; 

No  heart  had  I  to  see  or  hear 
The  discord  and  the  staining. 

Let  those  who  never  erred  forget 
His  worth,  in  vain  bewailings  ; 

Sweet  Soul  of  Song !  —  I  own  my  debt 
Uncancelled  by  his  failings! 

Lament  who  will  the  ribald  line 
Which  tells  his  lapse  from  duty, 

How  kissed  the  maddening  lips  of  wine 
Or  wanton  ones  of  beauty ; 

But  think,  while  falls  that  shade  be- 
tween 

The  erring  one  and  Heaven, 
That  he  who  loved  like  Magdalen, 

Like  her  may  be  forgiven. 


Not  his  the  song  whose  thunderous 

chime 

Eternal  echoes  render,  — 
The     mournful     Tuscan's     haunted 

rhyme, 
And  Milton's  starry  splendor! 

But  who  his  human  heart  has  laid 
To  Nature's  bosom  nearer? 

Who  sweetened  toil  like  him,  or  paid 
To  love  a  tribute  dearer? 

Through  all  his  tuneful  art,  how  strong 
The  human  feeling  gushes! 

The  very  moonlight  of  his  song 
Is  warm  with  smiles  and  blushes! 

Give  lettered  pomp  to  teeth  of  Time, 
So  "  Bonnie  Doon  "  but  tarry  ; 

Blot  out  the  Epic's  stately  rhyme, 
But  spare  his  Highland  MaVy! 


WILLIAM   FORSTER. 

THE  years  are  many  since  his  hand 

Was  laid  upon  my  head, 
Too  weak  and  young  to  understand 

The  serious  words  he  said. 

Yet  often  now  the  good  man's  look 
Before  me  seems  to  swim, 

As  if  some  inward  feeling  took 
The  outward  guise  of  him. 

As  if,  in  passion's  heated  war, 
Or  near  temptation's  charm, 

Through  him  the  low-voiced  monitor 
Forewarned  me  of  the  harm. 

Stranger  and  pilgrim !  —  from  that  day 

Of  meeting,  first  and  last, 
Wherever  Duty's  pathway  lay, 

His  reverent  steps  have  passed. 

The  poor  to  feed,  the  lost  to  seek, 

To  proffer  life  to  death, 
Hope  to  the  erring,  —  to  the  weak 

The  strength  of  his  own  faith. 


RANTOUL. 


237 


To  plead  the  captive's  right ;  remove 
The  sting  of  hate  from  Law  ; 

And  soften  in  the  fire  of  love 
The  hardened  steel  of  War. 

He   walked   the   dark  world,  in   the 
mild, 

Still  guidance  of  the  Light ; 
In  tearful  tenderness  a  child, 

A  strong  man  in  the  right. 

From  what  great  perils,  on  his  way. 
He  found,  in  prayer,  release ; 

Through  what  abysmal  shadows  lay 
His  pathway  unto  peace, 

God  knoweth  :  we  could  only  see 
The  tranquil  strength  he  gained  ; 

The  bondage  lost  in  liberty, 
The  fear  in  love  unfeigned. 

And  I,  —  my  youthful  fancies  grown 

The  habit  of  the  man, 
Whose  field  of  life  by  angels  sown 

The  wilding  vines  overran,  — 

Low  bowed  in  silent  gratitude, 
My  manhood's  heart  enjoys 

That  reverence  for  the  pure  and  good 
Which  blessed  the  dreaming  boy's. 

Still  shines  the  light  of  holy  lives 
Like  star-beams  over  doubt ; 

Each    sainted     memory,    Christlike, 

drives 
Some  dark  possession  out. 

O  friend!  O  brother!  not  in  vain 
Thy  life  so  calm  and  true, 

The  silver  dropping  of  the  rain, 
The  fall  of  summer  dew ! 

How    many    burdened    hearts    have 
prayed 

Their  lives  like  thine  might  be! 
But  more  shall  pray  henceforth  for  aid 

To  lay  them  down  like  thee. 

With  weary  hand,  yet  steadfast  will, 
In  old  age  as  in  youth, 


Thy  Master  found  thee  sowing  still 
The  good  seed  of  his  truth. 

As  on  thy  task-field  closed  the  day 

In  golden-skied  decline, 
His  angel  met  thee  on  the 'way, 

And  lent  his  arm  to  thine. 

Thy  latest  care  for  man,  —  thy  last 
Of  earthly  thought  a  prayer,  — 

O,  who  thy  mantle,  backward  cast, 
Is  worthy  now  to  wear? 

Methinks  the  mound  which  marks  thy 
bed 

Might  bless  our  land  and  save, 
As  rose,  of  old,  to  life  the  dead 

Who  touched  the  prophet's  grave! 


RANTOUL. 

ONE  day,  along  the  electric  wire 
His  manly  word  for  Freedom  sped  ; 

We  came  next  morn :  that  tongue  of 

fire 
Said  only,  "He  who  spake  is  dead ! " 

Dead!  while  his  voice  was  living  yet, 
In  echoes  round  the  pillared  dome! 

Dead!  while  his  blotted  page  lay  wet 
With  themes  of  state  and  loves  of 
home ! 

Dead !  in  that  crowning  grace  of  time, 

That  triumph  of  life's  zenith  hour! 
Dead!  while  we   watched   his   man- 
hood's prime 

Break    from    the    slow    bud    into 
flower ! 

Dead!  he  so  great,  and  strong,  and 

wise, 
While  the  mean  thousands  yet  drew 

breath ; 
How  deepened,  through   that   dread 

surprise, 
The  mystery  and  the  awe  of  death! 


233 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


From    the    high    place   whereon    our 

votes 

Had  borne  him,  clear,  calm,  earn- 
est, fell 

His  first  words,  like  the  prelude  notes 
Of  some  great  anthem  yet  to  swell. 

We  seemed  to  see  our  flag  unfurled, 
Our  champion  waiting  in  his  place 

For  the  last  battle  of  the  world,  — 
The  Armageddon  of  the  race. 

Through  him  we  hoped  to  speak  the 

word 

Which  wins  the  freedom  of  a  land  ; 
And  lift,  for  human  right,  the  sword 
Which   dropped   from   Hampden's 
dying  hand. 

For  he  had  sat  at  Sidney's  feet, 
And  walked  with    Pym  and  Vane 

apart ; 
And,  through  the  centuries,  felt  the 

beat 

Of  Freedom's  march  in  Cromwell's 
heart. 

He  knew  the  paths  the  worthies  held, 
Where  England's  best  and  wisest 

trod  ; 
And,   lingering,    drank    the    springs 

that  "welled 
Beneath  the  touch  of  Milton's  rod. 

No  wild  enthusiast  of  the  right, 

Self-poised  and   clear,    he  showed 
alway 

The  coolness  of  his  northern  night, 
The  ripe  repose  of  autumn's  day. 

His  steps  were  slow,  yet  forward  still 
He  pressed  where  others  paused  or 

failed ; 
The  calm  star  clomb  with  constant 

will,  — 

The   restless   meteor  flashed    and 
paled! 

Skilled  in  its  subtlest  wile,  he  knew 
And  owned  the  higher  ends  of  Law  ; 


Still  rose  majestic  on  his  view 

The  awful   Shape   the   schoolman 


Her   home   the    heart   of   God ;    her 

voice 

The  choral  harmonies  whereby 
The  stars,  through  all  their  spheres, 

rejoice, 

The    rhythmic   rule   of  earth    and 
sky! 

We  saw  his  great  powers  misapplied 
To  poor  ambitions ;  yet,   through 

all, 

We  saw  him  take  the  weaker  side, 
And   right  the   wronged,  and  free 
the  thrall. 

Now,  looking  o'er  the  frozen  North 
For  one  like  him  in  word  and  act, 

To  call  her  old,  free  spirit  forth, 
And  give  her  faith  the  life  of  fact,  — 

To  break  her  party  bonds  of  shame, 
And  labor  with  the  zeal  of  him 

To  make  the  Democratic  name 
Of  Liberty  the  synonyme,  — 

We  sweep  the  land  from  hill  to  strand, 
We  seek  the  strong,  the  wise,  the 
brave, 

And,  sad  of  heart,  return  to  stand 
In  silence  by  a  new-made  grave! 

There,  where  his  breezy  hills  of  home 
Look  out  upon  his  sail-white  seas, 

The  sounds  of  winds  and  waters  come, 
And  shape  themselves  to  words 
like  these : 

"Why,   murmuring,  mourn   that  he, 
whose  power 

Was  lent  to  Party  over-long, 
Heard  the  still  whisper  at  the  hour 

He  set  his  foot  on  Party  wrong? 

"The  human  life  that  closed  so  well 
No  lapse  of  folly  now  can  stain  ; 


THE   DREAM   OF   FIO   NONO. 


239 


The    lips  whence   Freedom's  protest 

fell 

No  meaner  thought  can  now  pro- 
fane. 

"  Mightier  than  living  voice  his  grave 

That  lofty  protest  utters  o'er ; 
Through   roaring  wind   and   smiting 

wave 

It  speaks  his  hate  of  wrong  once 
more. 

"  Men  of  the  North !  your  weak  re- 
gret 

Is  wasted  here  ;  arise  and  pay 
To  freedom  and  to  him  your  debt, 
By    following   where    he    led    the 
way!" 


THE   DREAM    OF    PIO    NONO. 

IT   chanced,  that  while   the   pious 

troops  of  France 
Fought   in    the    crusade    Pio    Nono 

preached, 
What  time  the  holy  Bourbons  stayed 

his  hands 
(The  Hur  and  Aaron  meet  for  such 

a  Moses), 
Stretched  forth  from  Naples  towards 

rebellious  Rome 

To  bless  the  ministry  of  Oudinot, 
And  sanctify  his  iron  homilies 
And  sharp  persuasions  of  the  bayonet, 
That  the  great  pontiff  fell  asleep,  and 

dreamed. 

He  stood  by  Lake  Tiberias,  in  the 

sun 
Of  the  bright  Orient ;  and  beheld  the 

lame, 
The   sick,   and   blind,   kneel  at   the 

Master's  feet, 
And   rise  up  whole.     And,   sweetly 

over  all, 
Dropping  the  ladder  of  their  hymn 

of  praise 
From  heaven  to  earth,  in  silver  rounds 

of  song, 


He  heard  the  blessed  angels  sing  of 

peace, 
Good-will  to  man,  and  glory  to  the 

Lord. 

Then  one,  with   feet   unshod,  and 

leathern  face 
Hardened    and    darkened    by   fierce 

summer  suns 
And  hot  winds  of  the  desert,  closer 

drew 
His  fisher's  haick,  and  girded  up  his 

loins, 

.And  spake,  as  one  who  had  authority  : 
"  Come  thou  with  me." 

Lakeside  and  eastern  sky 
And  the  sweet  song  of  angels  passed 

away, 
And,    with     a     dream's    alacrity    of 

change, 
The   priest,  and  the  swart   fisher  by 

his  side, 
Beheld    the     Eternal     City    lift    its 

domes 
And   solemn  fanes   and   monumental 

pomp 
Above  the  waste  Campagna.     On  the 

hills 
The  blaze  of  burning  villas  rose  and 

fell, 
And   momently     the     mortar's    iron 

throat 
Roared     from     the     trenches ;    and, 

within  the  walls, 
Sharp  crash  of  shells,  low  groans  of 

human  pain, 
Shout,  drum   beat,  and  the  clanging 

larum-bell, 
And  tramp  of  hosts,  sent  up  a  mingled 

sound, 
Half  wail  and  half  defiance.     As  they 

passed 
The  gate  of  San    Pancrazio,  human 

blood 
Flowed   ankle-high  about  them,  and 

dead  men 
Choked   the  long  street  with  gashed 

and  gory  piles,  — 
A  ghastly  barricade  of  mangled  flesh, 


240 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


From  which,  at  times,  quivered  a  liv- 
ing hand, 

And  white  lips  moved  and  moaned. 
A  father  tore 

His  gray  hairs,  by  the  body  of  his 
son, 

In  frenzy ;  and  his  fair  young  daughter 
wept 

On  his  old  bosom.     Suddenly  a  flash 

Clove  the  thick  sulphurous  air,  and 
man  and  maid 

Sank,  crushed  and  mangled  by  the 
shattering  shell. 

Then  spake  the  Galilean:  "Thou 

hast  seen 
The  blessed  Master  and  his  works  of 

love ; 
Look  now    on   thine!      Hearst  thou 

the  angels  sing 
Above  this  open  hell?     Thou  God's 

high -priest! 
Thou  the  Vicegerent  of  the  Prince  of 

Peace! 
Thou   the   successor    of  his   chosen 

ones ! 

I,  Peter,  fisherman  of  Galilee, 
In  the  clear   Master's  name,   and  for 

the  love 

Of  his  true  Church,  proclaim  thee  Anti- 
christ, 

Alien  and  separate  from  his  holy  faith, 
Wide  as  the  difference  between  death 

and  life, 
The  hate  of  man  and  the  great  love  of 

God! 
Hence,  and  repent!1' 

Thereat  the  pontiff  woke, 

Trembling,  and  muttering  o'er  his 
fearful  dream. 

"What  means  he?"  cried  the  Bour- 
bon. "  Nothing  more 

Than  that  your  majesty  hath  all  too 
well 

Catered  for  your  poor  guests,  and  that, 
in  sooth, 

The  Holy  Father's  supper  troubleth 
him," 

Said  Cardinal  Antonelli,  with  a  smile. 


TAULER. 

TAULER,  the  preacher,  walked,  one 

autumn  day, 
Without   the   walls  of  Strasburg,  by 

the  Rhine, 
Pondering     the    solemn    Miracle   of 

Life; 
As  one  who,  wandering  in  a  starless 

night, 
Feels,  momently,   the  jar  of  unseen 

waves, 
And  hears  the  thunder  of  an  unknown 

sea, 
Breaking  along  an  unimagined  shore. 

And   as     rje   walked    he     prayed. 

Even  the  same 
Old  prayer    with    which,    for  half  a 

score  of  years, 
Morning,  and  noon,  and  evening,  lip 

and  heart 
Had  groaned  :    "  Have  pity  upon  me, 

Lord! 
Thou  seest,  while  teaching  others,  I 

am  blind. 
Send  me  a  man  who  can  direct  my 

steps ! " 

Then,  as  he  mused,  he  heard  along 

his  path 
A   sound  as   of  an    old    man's   staff 

among 
The    dry,    dead  linden-leaves ;    and, 

looking  up, 
He   saw  a  stranger,  weak,  and  poor, 

and  old. 

"Peace     be     unto    thee,   father!" 

Tauler  said, 
"  God  give  thee  a  good  day  !  "     The 

old  man  raised 
Slowly  his  calm  blue  eyes.    "  I  thank 

thee,  son ; 
But  all  my  days  are  good,  and  none 

are  ill." 

Wondering  thereat,  the    preacher 
spake  again, 


TAULER. 


241 


"  God  give  thee  happy  life."    The  old 

man  smiled, 
"  I  never  am  unhappy." 

Tauler  laid 
His  hand  upon  the  stranger's  coarse 

gray  sleeve : 
"  Tell  me,  O  father,  what  thy  strange 

words  mean. 
Surelv   man's  days  are  evil,  and  his 

life 


Sad  as  the  grave  it  leads  to.1 


Nay, 


my  son, 
Our  times  are  in  God's  hands,  and  all 

our  days 
Are  as  our  needs  :  for  shadow  as  for 

sun, , 
For  cold  as  heat,  for  want  as  wealth, 

alike 
Our  thanks  are  due,  since  that  is  best 

which  is  ; 
And  that  which  is  not,  sharing  not 

his  life, 

Is  evil  only  as  devoid  of  good. 
And   for   the  happiness   of  which    I 

spake, 

I  find  it  in  submission  to  his  will, 
And  calm  trust  in  the  holy  Trinity 
Of  Knowledge,  Goodness,  and    Al- 
mighty Power." 

Silently  wondering,     for    a    little 
•     space, 
Stood   the  great  preacher ;    then  he 

spake  as  one 
Who,     suddenly    grappling   with     a 

haunting  thought 
Which  long  has  followed,  whispering 

through  the  dark 
Strange   terrors,    drags  it,  shrieking, 

into  light : 
u  What  if  God's  will  consign  thee 

hence  to  Hell?  " 

"  Then,"  said  the  stranger,  cheerily, 

"  be  it  so. 
What  Hell  may  be  I  know  not ;  this 

I  know.  — 
I  cannot  lose  the  presence  of  the 

Lord: 


One  arm,  Humility,  takes  hold  upon 
His  dear  Humanity  ;  the  other,  Love, 
Clasps  his  Divinity.     So  where  I  go 
He  goes  ;  and  better  fire-walled  Hell 

with  Him 

Than   golden-gated    Paradise    with- 
out." 


Tears  sprang  in  Tauler's  eyes.     A 

sudden  light, 
Like  the  first  ray  which  fell  on  chaos, 

clove 
Apart    the   shadow  wherein    he  had 

walked 
Darkly  at  noon.    And,  as  the  strange 

old  man 
Went  his   slow  way,  until  his  silver 

hair 
Set  like  the  white  moon  where   the 

hills  of  vine 
Slope   to   the   Rhine,    he  bowed  his 

head  and  said  : 
"  My  prayer  is  answered.     God  hath 

sent  the  man 

Long  sought,  to  teach  me,  by  his  sim- 
ple trust 
Wisdom  the  weary  schoolmen  never 

knew." 


So,   entering  with  a  changed  and 

cheerful  step 
The  city  gates,  he  saw,  far  down  the 

street, 
A  mighty  shadow  break  the  light  of 

noon, 
While   tracing  backward  till  its  airy 

lines 
Hardened  to  stony  plinths,  he  raised 

his  eyes 

O'er  broad  facade  and  lofty  pediment, 
O'er  architrave  and  frieze  and  sainted 

niche, 
Up  the  stone  lace-work  chiselled  by 

the  wise 

Erwin  of  Steinbach,  dizzily  up  to  where 
In  the  noon-brightness  the  great  Min- 
ster's tower, 
Jewelled  with  sunbeams  on  its  mural 


242 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Rose  like  a  visible  prayer.  "  Be- 
hold!" he  said, 

"  The  stranger's  faith  made  plain  be- 
fore mine  eyes. 

As  yonder  tower  outstretches  to  the 
earth 

The  dark  triangle  of  its  shade  alone 

When  the  clear  day  is  shining  on  its 
top, 

So,  darkness  in  the  pathway  of  Man's 
life 

Is  but  the  shadow  of  God's  providence, 

By  the  great  Sun  of  Wisdom  cast 
thereon ; 

And  what  is  dark  below  is  light  in 
Heaven.1' 


LINES, 

SUGGESTED  BY  READING  A  STATE 
PAPER,  WHEREIN  THE  HIGHER 
LAW  IS  INVOKED  TO  SUSTAIN  THE 
LOWER  ONE. 

A  PIOUS  magistrate!  sound  his  praise 

throughout 
The  wondering  churches.    Who  shall 

henceforth  doubt 
That  the   long-wished   millennium 

draweth  nigh  ? 

Sin  in  high  places  has  become  devout, 
Tithes  mint,  goes  painful-faced,  and 

prays  its  lie 

Straight  up  to  Heaven,  and  calls  it 
piety! 

The  pirate,  watching  from  his  bloody 

deck 

The  weltering  galleon,  heavy  with 
the  gold 

Of  Acapulco,  holding  death  in  check 
While     prayers     are    said,    brows 
crossed,  and  beads  are  told, — • 

The  robber,  kneeling  where  the  way- 
side cross 

On  dark  Abruzzo  tells  of  life's  dread 
loss 

From  his  own  carbine,  glancing  still 
abroad 


For  some  new  victim,  offering  thanks 

to  God!  — 
Rome,  listening  at  her  altars  to  the 

cry 
Of  midnight  Murder,  while  her  hounds 

of  hell 
Scour  France,  from  baptized  cannon 

and  holy  bell 
And  thousand-throated  priesthood, 

loud  and  high, 

Pealing  Te  Deums  to  the  shudder- 
ing sky, 
"  Thanks  to  the  Lord,  who  giveth 

victory ! " 
What  prove  these,  but  that  crime  was 

ne'er  so  black 
As  ghostly  cheer  and  pious  thanks  to 

lack  ? 
Satan  is  modest.     J^i  Heaven's  door 

he  lays 
His  evil  offspring,  and,  in  Scriptural 

phrase 
And  saintly  posture,  gives  to  God  the 

praise 

And  honor  of  the  monstrous  progeny. 
What  marvel,  then,  in  our  own  time 

to  see 

His  old  devices,  smoothly  acted  o'er,  — 
Official  piety,  locking  fast  the  door 
Of  Hope  against  three  million  souls  of 

men,  — 

Brothers,  God's  children,  Christ's  re- 
deemed, —  and  then, 
With  uprolled  eyeballs  and  on  bended 

knee, 
Whining  a  prayer  for  help  to  hide  the 

key!  / 


THE   VOICES. 

"  WHY  urge  the  long,  unequal  fight, 
Since  Truth  has  fallen  in  the  street, 

Or  lift  anew  the  trampled  light, 
Quenched  by  the  heedless  million's 
feet? 

"  Give  o'er  the  thankless  task  ;  forsake 
The  foois  who  know  not  ill  from 
good; 


THE  VOICES. 


Eat,  drink,  enjoy  thy  own,  and  take 
Thine  ease  among  the  multitude. 

"  Live  out  thyself;  with  others  share 
Thy  proper  life  no  more  ;  assume 

The  unconcern  of  sun  and  air, 

For  life  or  death,  or  blight  or  bloom. 

"  The  mountain  pine  looks  calmly  on 
The  fires   that  scourge  the  plains 
below, 

Nor  heeds  the  eagle  in  the  sun 

The  small  birds  piping  in  the  snow! 

"  The  world  is  God's,  not  thine ;  let 

him 
Work  out  a  change,  if  change  must 

be: 

The  hand  that  planted  best  can  trim 
And  nurse  the  old  unfruitful  tree." 

So  spake  the  Tempter,  when  the  light 
Of  sun  and  stars  had  left  the  sky, 

I  listened,  through  the  cloud  and  night, 
And  heard,  methought,  a  voice  re- 
ply: 

"  Thy  task  may  well  seem  over-hard, 
Who  scatterest  in  a  thankless  soil 

Thy  life  as  seed,  with  no  reward 
Save  that  which  Duty  gives  to  Toil. 

"  Not  wholly  is  thy  heart  resigned 
To  Heaven's  benign  and  just  decree, 

Which,  linking  thee  with  all  thy  kind, 
Transmits  their  joys  and  griefs  to 
thee. 

"  Break  off  that  sacred  chain,  and  turn 
Back  on  thyself  thy  love  and  care ; 

Be  thou  thine  own  mean  idol,  burn 
Faith,  Hope,  and  Trust,  thy  chil- 
dren, there. 

"  Released  from  that  fraternal  law 
Which  shares  the  common  bale  and 
bliss, 

No  sadder  lot  could  Folly  draw, 
Or  Sin  provoke  from  Fate,  than  this. 


"  The  meal  unshared  is  food  unblest ; 

Thou    hoard's!  in  vain   what  love 

should  spend ; 
Self-ease  is  pain ;  thy  only  rest 

Is  labor  for  a  worthy  end. 

"  A  toil  that  gains  with  what  it  yields, 
And  scatters  to  its  own  increase, 

And    hears,    while    sowing    outward 

fields, 
The  harvest-song  of  inward  peace. 

"  Free-lipped  the  liberal  streamlets  run, 
Free  shines  for  all  the  healthful  ray  ; 

The  still  pool  stagnates  in  the  sun, 
The  lurid  earth-fire  haunts  decay! 

"  What  is  it,  that  the  crowd  requite 
Thy  love  with  hate,  thy  truth  with 
lies? 

And  but  to  faith,  and  not  to  sight, 
The  walls  of  Freedom's  temple  rise? 

"  Yet  do  thy  work  ;  it  shall  succeed 
In  thine  or  in  another's  day'; 

And,  if  denied  the  victor's  meed, 
Thou  shalt  not  lack  the  toiler's  pay. 

"  Faith  shares  the  future's  promise ; 

Love's 

Self-offering  is  a  triumph  won  ; 
And   each    good    thought   or    action 

moves 
The  dark  world  nearer  to  the  sun. 

"  Then  faint  not,  falter  not,  nor  plead 
Thy  weakness  ;  truth  itself  is  strong ; 

The  lion's  strength,  the  eagle's  speed, 
Are  not  alone  vouchsafed  to  wrong. 

"  Thy  nature,  which,  through  fire  and 
flood, 

To  place  or  gain  finds  out  its  way, 
Hath  power  to  seek  the  highest  good, 

And  duty's  holiest  call  obey! 

"Strivest  thou   in  darkness?  —  Foes 

without 

In    league    with    traitor    thoughts 
within ; 


244 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Thy  night-watch  kept  with  trembling 

Doubt 

And   pale   Remorse   the  ghost  of 
Sin?  — 

"Hast   thou  not,  on  some  week  of 

storm. 
Seen  the  sweet  Sabbath  breaking 

fair, 

And  cloud  and  shadow,  sunlit,  form 
The  curtains  of  its  tent  of  prayer? 

"  So,  haply,  when  thy  task  shall  end, 
The  wrong  shall  lose  itself  in  right, 

And  all  thy  week-day  darkness  blend 
With  the  long  Sabbath  of  the  light !" 


THE    HERO. 

"  O  FOR  a  knight  like  Bayard, 
Without  reproach  or  fear  ; 

My  light  glove  on  his  casque  of  steel, 
My  love-knot  on  his  spear! 

"  O  for  the  white  plume  floating 
Sad  Zutphen's  field  above,  — 

The  lion  heart  in  battle, 
The  woman's  heart  in  love! 

"  O  that  man  once  more  were  manly, 
Woman's  pride,  and  not  her  scorn  : 

That  once  more  the  pale  young  mother 
Dared  to  boast  '  a  man  is  born  ' ! 

"  But,  now  life's  slumberous  current 
No  sun-bowed  cascade  wakes  ; 

No  tall,  heroic  manhood 
The  level  dulness  breaks. 

"  O  for  a  knight  like  Bayard, 
Without  reproach  or  fear! 

My  light  glove  on  his  casque  of  steel, 
My  love-knot  on  his  spear!" 

Then  I  said,  my  own  heart  throbbing 
To  the  time  her  proud  pulse  beat, 

"  Life  hath  its  regal  natures  yet,  — 
True,  tender,  brave,  and  sweet! 


"  Smile  not,  fair  unbeliever! 

One  man,  at  least,  I  know, 
Who  might  wear  the  crest  of  Bayard 

Or  Sidney's  plume  of  snow. 

"  Once,  when  over  purple  mountains 
Died  away  the  Grecian  sun, 

And  the  far  Cyllenian  ranges 

Paled  and  darkened,  one  by  one, — 

"  Fell  the  Turk,  a  bolt  of  thunder, 
Cleaving  all  the  quiet  sky, 

And   against   his   sharp   steel    light- 
nings 
Stood  the  Suliote  but  to  die. 

"Woe  for  the  weak  and  halting! 

The  crescent  blazed  behind 
A  curving  line  of  sabres, 

Like  fire  before  the  wind! 

"  Last  to  fly  and  first  to  rally, 
Rode  he  of  whom  I  speak, 

When,  groaning  in  his  bridle-path, 
Sank  down  a  wounded  Greek. 

"With  the  rich  Albanian  costume 
Wet  with  many  a  ghastly  stain, 

Gazing  on  earth  and  sky  as  one 
Who  might  not  gaze  again ! 

"  He  looked  forward  to  the  mountains, 
Back  on  foes  that  never  spare, 

Then  flung  him  from  his  saddle, 
And  placed  the  stranger  there. 

"  <  Allah !  hu ! '     Through  flashing  sa- 
bres, 

Through  a  stormy  hail  of  lead, 
The  good  Thessalian  charger 

Up  the  slopes  of  olives  sped. 

"  Hot  spurred  the  turbaned  riders  ; 

He  almost  felt  their  breath, 
Where    a    mountain    stream     rolled 

darkly  down 
Between  the  hills  and  death. 

"  One  brave  and  manful  struggle,  — 
He  gained  the  solid  land, 


MY   DREAM. 


245 


And  the  cover  of  the  mountains, 
And  the  carbines  of  his  band ! " 

"  It  was  very  great  and  noble,1' 
Said  the  moist-eyed  listener  then, 

"  But  one  brave  deed  makes  no  hero  ; 
Tell  me  what  he  since  hath  been!" 

"  Still  a  brave  and  generous  manhood, 
Still  an  honor  without  stain, 

In  the  prison  of  the  Kaiser, 
By  the  barricades  of  Seine. 

"  But  dream  not  helm  and  harness 

The  sign  of  valor  true  ; 
Peace  hath  higher  tests  of  manhood 

Than  battle  ever  knew. 

"  Wouldst  know  him  now  ?     Behold 
him, 

The  Cadmus  of  the  blind, 
Giving  the  dumb  lip  language, 

The  idiot  clay  a  mind. 

"  Walking  his  round  of  duty 

Serenely  day  by  day. 
With  the  strong  man's  hand  of  labor 

And  childhood's  heart  of  play. 

"  True  as  the  knights  of  story, 
Sir  Lancelot  and  his  peers, 

Brave  in  his  calm  endurance 
As  they  in  tilt  of  spears. 

"As  waves  in  stillest  waters, 
As  stars  in  noonday  skies, 

All  that  wakes  to  noble  action 
In  his  noon  of  calmness  lies. 

"  Wherever  outraged  Nature 
Asks  word  or  action  brave, 

Wherever  struggles  labor, 
Wherever  groans  a  slave, — 

"  Wherever  rise  the  peoples, 

Wherever  sink  a  throne, 
The  throbbing  heart  of  Freedom  finds 

An  answer  in  his  own. 


"  Knight  of  a  better  era, 
Without  reproach  or  fear! 

Said  I  not  well  that  Bayards 
And  Sidneys  still  are  here?" 


MY  DREAM. 

IN  my  dream,  methought  I  trod, 
Yesternight,  a  mountain  road  ; 
Narrow  as  Al  Sirat's  span, 
High  as  eagle's  flight,  it  ran. 

Overhead,  a  roof  of  cloud 
With  its  weight  of  thunder  bowed  ; 
Underneath,  to  left  and  right, 
Blankness  and  abysmal  night. 

Here  and  there  a  wild-flower  blushed, 
Now  and  then  a  bird-song  gushed ; 
Now  and  then,  through  rifts  of  shade, 
Stars  shone  out,  and  sunbeams  played. 

But  the  goodly  company, 
Walking  in  that  path  with  me, 
One  by  one  the  brink  o'erslid, 
One  by  one  the  darkness  hid. 

Some  with  wailing  and  lament, 
Some  with  cheerful  courage  went; 
But,  of  all  who  smiled  or  mourned, 
Never  one  to  us  returned. 

Anxiously,  with  eye  and  ear, 
Questioning  that  shadow  drear, 
Never  hand  in  token  stirred, 
Never  answering  voice  I  heard ! 

Steeper,  darker !  —  lo !  I  felt 
From  my  feet  the  pathway  melt. 
Swallowed  by  the  black  despair, 
And  the  hungry  jaws  of  air, 

Past  the  stony-throated  caves, 
Strangled  by  the  wash  of  waves, 
Past  the  splintered  crags,  I  sank 
On  a  green  and  flowery  bank, — 

Soft  as  fall  of  thistle-down, 
Lightly  as  a  cloud  is  blown, 


246 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Whispering,  by  its  open  door : 
uFear  not!     He  hath  gone  before!" 

THE   BAREFOOT   BOY. 

BLESSINGS  on  thee,  little  man, 
Barefoot  boy,  with  cheek  of  tan ! 
With  thy  turned-up  pantaloons, 
And  thy  merry  whistled  tunes  ; 
With  thy  red  lip,  redder  still 
Kissed  by  strawberries  on  the  hill  ; 
With  the  sunshine  on  thy  face, 
Through  thy  torn  brim's  jaunty  grace ; 
From  my  heart  I  give  thee  joy,  — 
I  was  once  a  barefoot  boy! 
Prince  thou  art,  —  the  grown-up  man 
Only  is  republican. 
Let  the  million-dollared  ride ! 
Barefoot,  trudging  at  his  side, 
Thou  hast  more  than  he  can  buy 
In  the  reach  of  ear  and  eye, — 
Outward  sunshine,  inward  joy  : 
Blessings  on  thee,  barefoot  boy! 

O  for  boyhood's  painless  play, 
Sleep  that  wakes  in  laughing  day, 
Health  that  mocks  the  doctor's  rules, 
Knowledge  never  learned  of  schools, 
Of  the  wild  bee's  morning  chase, 
Of  the  wild-flower's  time  and  place, 
Flight  of  fowl  and  habitude 
Of  the  tenants  of  the  wood  ; 
How  the  tortoise  bears  his  shell, 
How  the  woodchuck  digs  his  cell, 
And  the  ground-mole  sinks  his  well ; 
How  the  robin  feeds  her  young, 
How  the  oriole's  nest  is  hung ; 
Where  the  whitest  lilies  blow, 
Where  the  freshest  berries  grow, 
Where  the  groundnut  trails  its  vine, 
Where     the     wood-grape's     clusters 

shine ; 

Of  the  black  wasp's  cunning  way, 
Mason  of  his  walls  of  clay, 
And  the  architectural  plans 
Of  gray  hornet  artisans !  — 
For,  eschewing  books  and  tasks, 
Nature  answers  all  he  asks  ; 
Hand  in  hand  with  her  he  walks, 


Soothingly  as  childhood  pressed 
To  the  bosom  of  its  rest. 

Of  the  sharp-horned  rocks  instead, 
Green  the  grassy  meadows  spread, 
Bright  with  waters  singing  by 
Trees  that  propped  a  golden  sky. 

Painless,  trustful,  sorrow-free, 
Old  lost  faces  welcomed  me, 
With  whose  sweetness  of  content 
Still  expectant  hope  was  blent. 

Waking  while  the  dawning  gray 
Slowly  brightened  into  day, 
Pondering  that  vision  fled, 
Thus  unto  myself  I  said  :  — 

"  Steep,  and  hung  with  clouds  of  strife, 
Is  our  narrow  path  of  life  ; 
And  our  death  the  dreaded  fall 
Through  the  dark,  awaiting  all. 

"  So,  with  painful  steps  we  climb 
Up  the  dizzy  ways  of  time, 
Ever  in  the  shadow  shed 
By  the  forecast  of  our  dread. 

"  Dread  of  mystery  solved  alone, 
Of  the  untried  and  unknown  ; 
Yet  the  end  thereof  may  seem 
Like  the  falling  of  my  dream. 

"  And  this  heart-consuming  care, 
All  our  fears  of  here  or  there, 
Change  and  absence,  loss  and  death, 
Prove  but  simple  lack  of  faith." 

Thou,  O  Most  Compassionate! 
Who  didst  stoop  to  our  estate, 
Drinking  of  the  cup  we  drain, 
Treading  in  our  path  of  pain,  — 

Through  the  doubt  and  mystery, 
Grant  to  us  thy  steps  to  see, 
And  the  grace  to  draw  from  thence 
Larger  hope  and  confidence. 

Show  thy  vacant  tomb,  and  let, 
As  of  old,  the  angels  sit, 


FLOWERS  IN   WINTER. 


247 


Face  to  face  with  her  he  talks, 
Part  and  parcel  of  her  joy,  — 
Blessings  on  the  barefoot  boy ! 

O  for  boyhood's  time  of  June, 
Crowding  years  in  one  brief  moon, 
When  all  things  I  heard  or  saw, 
Me,  their  master,  waited  for. 
I  was  rich  in  flowers  and  trees, 
Humming-birds  and  honey-bees ; 
For  my  sport  the  squirrel  played, 
Plied  the  snouted  mole  his  spade ; 
For  my  taste  the  blackberry  cone 
Purpled  over  hedge  and  stone  ; 
Laughed  the  brook  for  my  delight 
Through    the   day   and   through   the 

night, 

Whispering  at  the  garden  wall, 
Talked  with  me  from  fall  to  fall ; 
Mine  the  sand-rimmed  pickerel  pond, 
Mine  the  walnut  slopes  beyond, 
Mine,  on  bending  orchard  trees, 
Apples  of  Hesperides ! 
Still  as  my  horizon  grew, 
Larger  grew  my  riches  too  ; 
All  the  world  I  saw  or  knew 
Seemed  a  complex  Chinese  toy, 
Fashioned  for  a  barefoot  boy! 

O  for  festal  dainties  spread, 
Like  my  bowl  of  milk  and  bread,  — 
Pewter  spoon  and  bowl  of  wood, 
On  the  door-stone,  gray  and  rude! 
O'er  me,  like  a  regal  tent, 
Cloudy-ribbed,  the  sunset  bent, 
Purple-curtained,  fringed  with  gold, 
Looped  in  many  a  wind-swung  fold ; 
While  for  music  came  the  play 
Of  the  pied  frogs1  orchestra  ; 
And,  to  light  the  noisy  choir, 
Lit  the  fly  his  lamp  of  fire. 
I  was  monarch  :  pomp  and  joy 
Waited  on  the  barefoot  boy ! 

Cheerily,  then,  my  little  man, 
Live  and  laugh,  as  boyhood  can! 
Though  the  flinty  slopes  be  hard. 
Stubble-speared  the  new-mown  sward, 
Every  morn  shall  lead  thee  through 
Fresh  baptisms  of  the  dew  ; 


Every  evening  from  thy  feet 
Shall  the  cool  wind  kiss  the  heat : 
All  too  soon  these  feet  must  hide 
In  the  prison  cells  of  pride, 
Lose  the  freedom  of  the  sod, 
Like  a  colt's  for  work  be  shod, 
Made  to  tread  the  mills  of  toil, 
Up  and  down  in  ceaseless  moil : 
Happy  if  their  track  be  found 
Never  on  forbidden  ground ; 
Happy  if  they  sink  not  in 
Quick  and  treacherous  sands  of  sin. 
Ah!  that  thou  couldst  know  thy  joy, 
Ere  it  passes,  barefoot  boy ! 


FLOWERS    IN   WINTER. 

PAINTED    UPON    A    PORTE    LIVRE. 

How   strange    to   greet,    this    frosty 
morn, 

In  graceful  counterfeit  of  flowers, 
These  children  of  the  meadows,  born 

Of  sunshine  and  of  showers ! 

How  well  the  conscious  wood  retains 
The    pictures    of   its    flower-sown 

home,  — 
The   lights    and   shades,    the   purple 

stains, 
And  golden  hues  of  bloom ! 

It  was  a  happy  thought  to  bring 
To  the  dark  season's  frost  and  rime 

This  painted  memory  of  spring, 
This  dream  of  summer-time. 

Our  hearts  are  lighter  for  its  sake, 
Our  fancy's  age  renews  its  youth, 

And  dim-remembered  fictions  take 
The  guise  of  present  truth. 

A  wizard  of  the  Merrimack, — 
So  old  ancestral  legends  say,  — 

Could   call   green   leaf  and   blossom 

back 
To  frosted  stem  and  spray. 


248 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


The  dry  logs  of  the  cottage  wall, 
Beneath   his   touch,  put  out   their 
leaves ; 

The  clay-bound  swallow,  at  his  call, 
Played  round  the  icy  eaves. 

The  settler  saw  his  oaken  flail 

Take   bud,  and   bloom   before  his 
eyes; 

From  frozen  pools  he  saw  the  pale, 
Sweet  summer  lilies  rise. 

To   their  old   homes,   by   man   pro- 
faned, 

Came  the  sad  dryads,  exiled  long, 
And  through  their  leafy  tongues  com- 
plained 
Of  household  use  and  wrong. 

The  beechen  platter  sprouted  wild, 
The     pipkin     wore     its     old-time 
green ; 

The  cradle  o'er  the  sleeping  child 
Became  a  leafy  screen. 

Haply  our  gentle  friend  hath  met, 
While   wandering    in    her    sylvan 
quest, 

Haunting  his  native  woodlands  yet, 
That  Druid  of  the  West ;  — 

And,    while    the    dew   on   leaf   and 

flower 
Glistened   in  moonlight   clear  and 

still, 
Learned  the  dusk  wizard's   spell   of 

power, 
And  caught  his  trick  of  skill. 

But  welcome,  be  it  new  or  old, 
The  gift  which  makes  the  day  more 
bright, 

And  paints,  upon  the  ground  of  cold 
And  darkness,  warmth  and  light ! 

Without  is  neither  gold  nor  green ; 

Within,   for    birds,   the   birch-logs 

sing; 
Yet,  summer-like,  we  sit  between 

The  autumn  and  the  spring. 


The  one,  with  bridal  blush  of  rose, 
And  sweetest  breath  of  woodland 
balm, 

And  one  whose  matron  lips  unclose 
In  smiles  of  saintly  calm. 

Fill  soft  and  deep,  O  winter  snow ! 

The  sweet  azalia's  oaken  dells, 
And    hide    the    bank    where    roses 
blow, 

And  swing  the  azure  bells! 

Overlay  the  amber  violet's  leaves, 
The  purple  aster's  brookside  home, 

Guard  all  the  flowers  her  pencil  gives 
A  life  beyond  their  bloom. 

And  she,  when  spring  comes  round 
again, 

By  greening  slope  and  singing  flood 
Shall  wander,  seeking,  not  in  vain, 

Her  darlings  of  the  wood. 


THE   RENDITION. 

I   HEARD  the    train's    shrill  whistle 

call, 

I  saw  an  earnest  look  beseech, 
And  rather  by  that  look  than  speech 

My  neighbor  told  me  all. 

And,  as  I  thought  of  Liberty 

Marched    hand-cuffed    down    that 

sworded  street, 
The  solid  earth  beneath  my  feet 

Reeled  fluid  as  the  sea. 

I  felt  a  sense  of  bitter  loss,  — 

Shame,   tearless  grief,  and  stifling 

wrath, 
And  loathing  fear,  as  if  my  path 

A  serpent  stretched  across. 

All  love  of  home,  all  pride  of  place, 
All  generous  confidence  and  trust, 
Sank  smothering  in  that  deep  dis- 
gust _ 

And  anguish  of  disgrace. 


THE   FRUIT-GIFT. 


249 


Down  on  my  native  hills  of  June, 
And  home's  green  quiet,  hiding  all, 
Fell  sudden  darkness  like  the  fall 

Of  midnight  upon  noon! 

And  Law,  an  unloosed  maniac,  strong, 
Blood-drunken,  through  the  black- 
ness trod, 
Hoarse-shouting  in  the  ear  of  God 

The  blasphemy  of  wrong. 

"  O  Mother,  from  thy  memories  proud, 
Thy   old   renown,   dear   Common- 
wealth, 
Lend    this    dead   air   a   breeze   of 

health, 
And  smite  with  stars  this  cloud. 

"  Mother  of  Freedom,  wise  and  brave, 
Rise  awful  in  th^  strength,"  I  said ; 
Ah  me!  I  spake  but  to  the  dead ; 

I  stood  upon  her  grave! 

6th  mo.,  1854. 


LINES, 

ON  THE  PASSAGE  OF  THE  BILL  TO 
PROTECT  THE  RIGHTS  AND  LIBER- 
TIES OF  THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE 
STATE  AGAINST  THE  FUGITIVE 
SLAVE  ACT. 

I  SAID  I  stood  upon  thy  grave, 

My    Mother   State,   when  last  the 

moon 

Of  blossoms  clomb   the    skies    of 
June. 

And,  scattering  ashes  on  my  head, 
I  wore,  undreaming  of  relief, 
The  sackcloth  of    thy  shame  and 
grief. 

Again  that  moon  of  blossoms  shines 
On  leaf    and    flower   and   folded 

wing, 
And    thou    hast    risen    with    the 

spring ! 


Once  more  thy  strong  maternal  arms 
Are     round     about    thy     children 

flung,  — 
A  lioness  that  guards  her  young ! 

No  threat  is  on  thy  closed  lips. 
But  in  thine  eye  a  power  to  smite 
The  mad  wolf  backward  from  its 
light. 

Southward  the  baffled  robber's  track 
Henceforth  runs  only  ;  hereaway, 
The  fell  lycanthrope  finds  no  prey. 

Henceforth,  within  thy  sacred  gates, 
His  first  low  howl  shall  downward 

draw 
The  thunder  of  thy  righteous  law. 

Not  mindless  of  thy  trade  and  gain, 
But,  acting  on  the  wiser  plan, 
Thou  'rt  grown  conservative  of  man. 

So   shalt   thou   clothe  with   life   the 

hope, 

Dream-painted  on  the  sightless  eyes 
Of  him  who  sang  of  Paradise,  — 

The  vision  of  a  Christian  man, 
In  virtue  as  in  stature  great, 
Embodied  in  a  Christian  State. 

And  thou,  amidst  thy  sisterhood 
Forbearing  long,  yet  standing  fast, 
Shalt  win  their  grateful  thanks  at 
last; 

When  North  and  South  shall  strive 

no  more, 

And  all  their  feuds  and  fears  be  lost 
In  Freedom's  holy  Pentecost. 

6th  mo.,  1855. 


THE  FRUIT-GIFT. 

LAST  night,  just  as  the  tints  of  au- 
tumn's sky 

Of  sunset  faded  from  our  hills  and 
streams, 


250 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


I   sat,  vague  listening,    lapped   in 
twilights  dreams, 

To  the  leafs  rustle,  and  the  cricket's 
cry. 

Then,  like  that  basket,  flush  with  sum- 
mer fruit, 

Dropped  by  the  angels  at  the  Prophet's 
foot, 

Came,  unannounced,  a  gift  of  clustered 

sweetness, 

Full-orbed,  and    glowing  with  the 
prisoned  beams 

Of  summery  suns,   and,  rounded    to 
completeness 

By  kisses  of  the  south-wind  and  the 
dew. 

Thrilled    with  a    glad   surprise,  me- 
thought  I  knew 

The  pleasure  of  the  homeward-turning 
Jew, 

When  Eschol's  clusters  on  his  shoul- 
ders lay, 

Dropping    their     sweetness   on    his 
desert  way. 

I  said,  "  This  fruit  beseems  no  world 

of  sin. 

Its   parent   vine,   rooted   in   Para- 
dise, 
O'ercrept  the  wall,  and  never  paid 

the  price 
Of  the  great  mischief,  —  an  ambrosial 

tree, 

Eden's  exotic,  somehow  smuggled  in, 
To  keep   the   thorns   and   thistles 

company." 
Perchance     our     frail,     sad     mother 

plucked  in  haste 
A  single  vine-slip  as  she  passed  the 

gate, 
Where  the    dread   sword,    alternate 

paled  and  burned, 
And   the   stern  angel,  pitying  her 

fate, 
Forgave   the  lovely   trespasser,    and 

turned 
Aside  his  face  of  fire ;  and  thus  the 

waste 
And  fallen  world  hath  yet  its  annual 

taste 


Of  primal  good,  to  prove  of  sin  the 

cost, 
And   show  by  one  gleaned   ear  the 

mighty  harvest  lost. 


A   MEMORY. 

HERE,   while   the  loom    of    Winter 

weaves 

The   shroud  of   flowers  and  foun- 
tains, 

I  think  of  thee  and  summer  eves 
Among  the  Northern  mountains. 

When  thunder  tolled   the   twilight's 
close, 

And  winds  the  lake  were  rude  on, 
And  thou  wert  singing,  Co1  the  Yowes, 

The  bonny  yowts  of  Cluden! 

When,   close     and     closer,    hushing 

breath, 

Our  circle  narrowed  round  thee, 
And   smiles   and  tears  made  up  the 

wreath 

Wherewith    our    silence    crowned 
thee; 

And,  strangers  all,  we  felt  the  ties 
Of  sisters  and  of  brothers  ; 

Ah !  whose  of  all  those  kindly  eyes 
Now  smile  upon  another's? 

The  sport  of  Time,  who  still  apart 
The  waifs  of  life  is  flinging ; 

O,  nevermore  shall  heart  to  heart 
Draw  nearer  for  that  singing! 

Yet  when  the  panes  are  frosty-starred, 
And  twilight's  fire  is  gleaming, 

I  hear  the  songs  of  Scotland's  bard 
Sound  softly  through  my  dreaming! 

A  song  that  lends  to  winter  snows 
The  glow  of  summer  weather,— 

Again  I  hear  thee  ca'  the  yowes 
To  Cluden's  hills  of  heather! 


THE   KANSAS   EMIGRANTS. 


TO   C.    S. 

IF   I    have  seemed  more  prompt   to 

censure  wrong 
Than  praise  the  right ;  if  seldom  to 

thine  ear 
My  voice   hath   mingled  with   the 

exultant  cheer 
Borne  upon  all   our  Northern  winds 

along ; 
If  I    have   failed    to  join    the    fickle 

throng 
In  wide-eyed  wonder,  that  thou  stand- 

est  strong 

In  victory,  surprised  in  thee  to  find 
Brougham's  scathing  power  with  Can- 
ning's grace  combined ; 
That  he,  for  whom  the  ninefold  Muses 

sang, 

From  their  twined  arms  a  giant  ath- 
lete sprang, 
Barbing    the    arrows   of   his    native 

tongue 
With  the  spent  shafts  Latona's  archer 

flung, 
To  smite  the  Python  of  our  land  and 

time, 
Fell  as  the  monster  born  of  Crissa's 

slime, 
Like  the  blind  bard  who  in  Castalian 

springs 
Tempered   the  steel    that   clove  the 

crest  of  kings, 

And  on  the  shrine  of  England's  free- 
dom laid 
The  gifts  of  Cumae  and  of  Delphi's 

shade,  — 
Small    need   hast    thou  of  words  of 

praise  from  me. 
Thou  knowest  my  heart,  dear  friend, 

and  well  canst  guess 
That,  even  though  silent,  I  have  not 

the  less 
Rejoiced     to     see     thy     actual     life 

agree 
With  the  large  future  which  I  shaped 

for  thee, 
When,  years  ago,  beside  the  summer 

sea, 


White  in  the  moon,  we  saw  the  long 
waves  fall 

BafHed   and  broken  from   the  rocky 
wall, 

That,  to  the  menace  of  the  brawling 
flood, 

Opposed  alone  its  massive  quietude, 

Calm  as  a  fate ;  with  not  a  leaf  nor 
vine 

Nor  birch-spray  trembling  in  the  still 
moonshine, 

Crowning    it    like    God's    peace.     I 

sometimes  think 

That   night-scene  by  the  sea  pro- 
phetical, — 

(For  Nature  speaks  in  symbols  and 
in  signs, 

And  through  her  pictures  human  fate 
divines).— 

That  rock,  wherefrom  we  saw  the  bil- 
lows sink 

In  murmuring  rout,  uprising  clear 
and  tall 

In  the  white  light  of  heaven,  the  type 
of  one 

Who,  momently  by  Error's  host  as- 
sailed, 

Stands  strong  as  Truth,  in  greaves  of 

granite  mailed ; 

And,     tranquil-fronted,      listening 
over  all 

The    tumult,   hears    the  angels   say, 
Well  done! 


THE   KANSAS   EMIGRANTS. 

WE  cross  the  prairie  as  of  old 
The  pilgrims  crossed  the  sea, 

To  make  the  West,  as  they  the  East, 
The  homestead  of  the  free ! 

We  go  to  rear  a  wall  of  men 
On  Freedom's  southern  line, 

And  plant  beside  the  cotton-tree 
The  rugged  Northern  pine! 

We  're  flowing  from  our  native  hills 

As  our  free  rivers  flow  ; 
The  blessing  of  our  Mother-land 

Is  on  us  as  we  go. 


252 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


We  go  to  plant  her  common  schools 

On  distant  prairie  swells, 
And  give  the  Sabbaths  of  the  wild 

The  music  of  her  bells. 

Upbearing,  like  the  Ark  of  old, 

The  Bible  in  our  van, 
We  go  to  test  the  truth  of  God 

Against  the  fraud  of  man. 

No  pause,  nor  rest,  save  where   the 
streams 

That  feed  the  Kansas  run, 
Save  where  our  Pilgrim  gonfalon 

Shall  flout  the  setting  sun! 

We  '11  tread  the  prairie  as  of  old 
Our  fathers  sailed  the  sea, 

And  make  the  West,  as  they  the  East, 
The  homestead  of  the  free ! 


SONG   OF   SLAVES   IN   THE 
DESERT. 

WHERE  are  we  going?  where  are  we 

going, 
WThere  are  we  going,  Rubee? 

Lord  of  peoples,  lord  of  lands, 
Look  across  these  shining  sands, 
Through  the  furnace  of  the  noon, 
Through  the  white  light  of  the  moon. 
Strong  the  Ghibltee  wind  is  blowing, 
Strange  and  large  the  world  is  grow- 
ing! 

Speak  and  tell  us  where  we  are  going, 
Where  are  we  going,  Rubee? 

Bornou  land  was  rich  and  good, 
Wells  of  water,  fields  of  food, 
Dourra  fields,  and  bloom  of  bean, 
And  the  palm-tree  cool  and  green  : 
Bornou  land  we  see  no  longer, 
Here  we  thirst  and  here  we  hunger, 
Here  the  Moor-man  smites  in  anger : 
Where  are  we  going,  Rubee? 

When  we  went  from  Bornou  land, 
We  were  like  the  leaves  and  sand, 


WTe  were  many,  we  are  few  ; 
Life  has  one,  and  death  has  two : 
Whitened  bones  our  path  are  show- 
ing? 

Thou  All-seeing,  thou  All-knowing! 
Hear  us,  tell  us,  where  are  we  going, 
Where  are  we  going,  Rubee  ? 

Moons  of  marches  from  our  eyes 
Bornou  land  behind  us  lies  ; 
Stranger  round  us  day  by  day 
Bends  the  desert  circle  gray  ; 
Wild  the  waves  of  sand  are  flowing, 
Hot  the  winds  above  them  blowing, — 
Lord  of  all   things!  —  where  are  we 

going? 
Where  are  we  going,  Rubee? 

We  are  weak,  but  Thou  art  strong ; 

Short  our  lives,  but  Thine  is  long ; 

We  are  blind,  but  Thou  hast  eyes ; 

We  are  fools,  but  Thou  art  wise ! 

Thou,  our  morrow's  pathway  know- 
ing 

Through  the  strange  world  round  us 
growing, 

Hear  us,  tell  us  where  are  we  going, 
Where  are  we  going,  Rubee? 


LINES, 

INSCRIBED  TO  FRIENDS  UNDER  AR- 
REST FOR  TREASON  AGAINST  THE 
SLAVE  POWER. 

THE  age   is   dull    and  mean.     Men 

creep, 
Not  walk  ;  with  blood  too  pale  and 

tame 
To    pay    the    debt    they   owe    to 

shame ; 
Buy  cheap,  sell  dear ;  eat,  drink,  and 

sleep 
Down-pillowed,   deaf   to    moaning 

want ; 

Pay  tithes  for  soul-insurance  ;  keep 
Six  days  to  Mammon,  one  to  Cant. 


THE  NEW  EXODUS. 


253 


In  such  a  time,  give  thanks  to  God, 
That  somewhat  of  the  holy  rage 
With  which   the  prophets  in  their 
age 

On  all  its  decent  seemings  trod, 
Has  set  your  feet  upon  the  lie, 

That  man  and  ox  and  soul  and  clod 
Are  market  stock  to  sell  and  buy! 

The   hot   words    from  your  lips,  my 

own, 

To  caution  trained,  might   not  re- 
peat ; 

But  if  some  tares  among  the  wheat 
Of  generous  thought  and  deed  were 

sown, 
No  common  wrong  provoked  your 

zeal; 

The  silken  gauntlet  that  is  thrown 
In  such  a  quarrel  rings  like  steel. 

The  brave  old  strife  the  fathers  saw 
For  Freedom  calls  for  men  again 
Like  those  who  battled  not  in  vain 

For  England's  Charter,  Alfred's  law  ; 
And  right  of  speech  and  trial  just 

Wage  in  your  name  their  ancient  war 
With  venal     courts   and    perjured 
trust. 

God's  ways  seem  dark,  but,  soon  or 

late, 

They  touch  the  shining  hills  of  day; 
The  evil  cannot  brook  delay, 
The  good  can  well  afford  to  wait. 
Give  ermined  knaves  their  hour  of 

crime ; 

Ye  have  the  future  grand  and  great, 
The  safe  appeal  of  Truth  to  Time! 


THE    NEW   EXODUS. 

BY  fire  and  cloud,  across  the  desert 

sand, 

And  through  the  parted  waves, 
•om    their   long  bondage,  with    an 


From 


outstretched  hand, 
God  led  the  Hebrew  slaves ! 


Dead    as   the   letter    of    the    Penta- 
teuch, 

As  Egypt's  statues  cold, 
In  the  adytum  of  the  sacred  book 

Now  stands  that  marvel  old. 

"  Lo,  God  is  great ! "  the  simple  Mos- 
lem says. 

We  seek  the  ancient  date, 
Turn  the    dry  scroll,  and  make  that 

living  phrase 
A  dead  one  :  "  God  was  great ! " 

And,  like  the  Coptic  monks  by  Mousa's 

wells, 

We  dream  of  wonders  past, 
Vague   as    the    tales    the   wandering 

Arab  tells, 
Each  drowsier  than  the  last. 


O  fools  and  blind!     Above  the  Pyra- 
mids 

Stretches  once  more  that  hand, 
And  tranced  Egypt,  from  her  stony 

lids, 
Flings  back  her  veil  of  sand. 

And  morning-smitten  Meranon,  sing- 
ing, wakes ; 

And,  listening  by  his  Nile, 
O'er  Ammon's  grave  and  awful  visage 

breaks 
A  sweet  and  human  smile. 

Not,  as  before,  with  hail  and  fire,  and 

call 

Of  death  for  midnight  graves, 
But  in  the  stillness  of  the  noonday, 

fall 
The  fetters  of  the  slaves. 


No  longer  through  the  Red  Sea,  as  of 

old, 

The  bondmen  walk  dry  shod  ; 
Through    human  hearts,  by    love   of 

Him  controlled, 
Runs  now  that  path  of  God ! 


254 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE    HASCHISH. 

OF  all  that  Orient  lands  can  vaunt 
Of  marvels  with  our  own  competing, 

The  strangest  is  the  Haschish  plant, 
And  what  will  follow  on  its  eating. 

What  pictures  to  the  taster  rise, 
Of  Dervish  or  of  Almeh  dances! 

Of  Eblis,  or  of  Paradise, 

Set  all  aglow  with  Houri  glances ! 

The  poppy  visions  of  Cathay, 

The  heavy  beer-trance  of  the  Sua- 
bian ; 

The  wizard  lights  and  demon  play 
Of  nights  Walpurgis  and  Arabian ! 

The  Mollah  and  the  Christian  dog 
Change  place  in  mad  metempsycho- 
sis ; 

The  Muezzin  climbs  the  synagogue, 
The   Rabbi   shakes   his    beard    at 
Moses ! 

The  Arab  by  his  desert  well 

Sits  choosing   from   some  Caliph's 

daughters, 

And  hears  his  single  camel's  bell 
Sound  welcome  to  his  regal  quar- 
ters. 

The  Koran's  reader  makes  complaint 
Of  Shitan  dancing  on  and  off  it ; 

The  robber  offers  alms,  the  saint 
Drinks  Tokay  and  blasphemes  the 
Prophet. 


Such     scenes     that     Eastern    plant 

awakes ; 

But  we  have  one  ordained  to  beat  it, 
The   Haschish   of  the  West,   which 

makes 
Or  fools  or  knaves  of  all  who  eat  it. 

The  preacher  eats,   and  straight  ap- 
pears 

His  Bible  in  a  new  translation  ; 
Its  angels  negro  overseers, 

And  Heaven  itself  a  snug  planta- 
tion! 

The    man    of    peace,    about    whose 

dreams 

The  sweet  millennial  angels  cluster, 
Tastes  the  mad  weed,  and  plots  and 

schemes, 
A  raving  Cuban  filibuster ! 

The  noisiest  Democrat,  with  ease, 

It  turns  to  Slavery's  parish  beadle ; 
The   shrewdest  statesman    eats  and 

sees 

Due   southward     point    the    polar 
needle. 

The  Judge  partakes,  and  sits  erelong 
Upon   his   bench   a  railing  black- 
guard ; 

Decides  off-hand  that  right  is  wrong, 
And  reads  the  ten  commandments 
backward. 

O  potent  plant !  so  rare  a  taste 

Has  never  Turk  or  Gentoo  gotten ; 

The  hempen  Haschish  of  the  East 
Is  powerless  to  our  Western  Cotton ! 


MARY   GARVIN.  255 


BALLADS. 

MARY    GARVIN. 

FROM  the  heart  of  Waumbek  Methna,  from  the  lake  that  never  fails, 
Falls  the  Saco  in  the  green  lap  of  Conway's  intervales  ; 
There,  in  wild  and  virgin  freshness,  its  waters  foam  and  flow, 
As  when  Darby  Field  first  saw  them,  two  hundred  years  ago. 

But,  vexed  in  all  its  seaward  course  with  bridges,  dams,  and  mills, 
How  changed  is  Saco's  stream,  how  lost  its  freedom  of  the  hills, 
Since  travelled  Jocelyn,  factor  Vines,  and  stately  Champernoon 
Heard  on  its  banks  the  gray  wolfs  howl,  the  trumpet  of  the  loon! 

With  smoking  axle  hot  with  speed,  with  steads  of  fire  and  steam, 
Wide-waked  To-day  leaves  Yesterday  behind  him  like  a  dream. 
Still,  from  the  hurrying  train  of  Life,  fly  backward  far  and  fast 
The  milestones  of  the  fathers,  the  landmarks  of  the  past. 

But  human  hearts  remain  unchanged :  the  sorrow  and  the  sin, 
The  loves  and  hopes  and  fears  of  old,  are  to  our  own  akin ; 
And,  in  the  tales  our  fathers  told,  the  songs  our  mothers  sung, 
Tradition,  snowy-bearded,  leans  on  Romance,  ever  young. 

O  sharp-lined  man  of  traffic,  on  Saco's  banks  to-day! 
O  mill-girl  watching  late  and  long  the  shuttle's  restless  play! 
Let,  for  the  once,  a  listening  ear  the  working  hand  beguile, 
And  lend  my  old  Provincial  tale,  as  suits,  a  tear  or  smile ! 


The  evening  gun  had  sounded  from  gray  Fort  Mary's  walls ; 

Through  the  forest,  like  a  wild  beast,  roared  and  plunged  the  Saco's  falls. 

And  westward  on  the  sea-wind,  that  clamp  and  gusty  grew, 
Over  cedars  darkening  inland  the  smokes  of  Spurwink  blew. 

On  the  hearth  of  Farmer  Garvin  blazed  the  crackling  walnut  log ; 
Right  and  left  sat  dame  and  goodman,  and  between  them  lay  the  dog, 

Head  on  paws,  and  tail  slow  wagging,  and  beside  him  on  her  mat, 
Sitting  drowsy  in  the  fire-light,  winked  and  purred  the  mottled  cat. 

"  Twenty  years!"  said  Goodman  Garvin,  speaking  sadly,  under  breath, 
And  his  gray  head  slowly  shaking,  as  one  who  speaks  of  death. 

The  goodwife  dropped  her  needles  :  "It  is  twenty  years,  to-day, 
Since  the  Indians  fell  on  Saco,  and  stole  our  child  away." 


256  BALLADS. 


Then  they  sank  into  the  silence,  for  each  knew  the  other's  thought, 
Of  a  great  and  common  sorrow,  and  words  were  needed  not. 

"  Who  knocks?  "  cried  Goodman  Garvin.     The  door  was  open  thrown  ; 
On  two  strangers,  man  and  maiden,  cloaked  and  furred,  the  fire-light  shone. 

One  with  courteous  gesture  lifted  the  bear-skin  from  his  head ; 
"  Lives  here  Elkanah  Garvin?  "     "  I  am  he,"  the  goodman  said. 

"  Sit  ye  down,  and  dry  and  warm  ye,  for  the  night  is  chill  with  rain." 
And  the  goodwife  drew  the  settle,  and  stirred  the  fire  amain. 

The  maid  unclasped  her  cloak-hood,  the  fire-light  glistened  fair 
In  her  large,  moist  eyes,  and  over  soft  folds  of  dark  brown  hair. 

Dame  Garvin  looked  upon  her :  "  It  is  Mary's  self  I  see! 

Dear  heart! "  she  cried,  "  now  tell  me,  has  my  child  come  back  to  me?  " 

"  My  name  indeed  is  Mary,"  said  the  stranger,  sobbing  wild ; 
"  Will  you  be  to  me  a  mother?     I  am  Mary  Garvin's  child! 

"  She  sleeps  by  wooded  Simcoe,  but  on  her  dying  day 
She  bade  my  father  take  me  to  her  kinsfolk  far  away. 

"  And  when  the  priest  besought  her  to  do  me  no  such  wrong, 
She  said,  l  May  God  forgive  me!  I  have  closed  my  heart  too  long. 

" ;  When  I  hid  me  from  my  father,  and  shut  out  my  mother's  call, 
I  sinned  against  those  dear  ones,  and  the  Father  of  us  all. 

" l  Christ's  love  rebukes  no  home-love,  breaks  no  tie  of  kin  apart ; 
Better  heresy  in  doctrine,  than  heresy  of  heart. 

" i  Tell  me  not  the  Church  must  censure  :  she  who  wept  the  Cross  beside 
Never  made  her  own  flesh  strangers,  nor  the  claims  of  blood  denied  ; 

" '  And  if  she  who  wronged  her  parents,  with  her  child  atones  to  them, 
Earthly  daughter,  Heavenly  mother!  thou  at  least  wilt  not  condemn!' 

"  So,  upon  her  death-bed  lying,  my  blessed  mother  spake ; 
As  we  come  to  do  her  bidding,  so  receive  us  for  her  sake." 

"  God  be  praised!  "  said  Goodwife  Garvin,  "  He  taketh,  and  he  gives ; 
He  woundeth,  but  he  healeth  ;  in  her  child  our  daughter  lives!  " 

"  Amen!  "  the  old  man  answered,  as  he  brushed  a  tear  away, 

And,  kneeling  by  his  hearthstone,  said,  with  reverence,  "  Let  us  pray.11 


MARY   GARVIN.  257 


All  its  Oriental  symbols,  and  its  Hebrew  paraphrase, 

Warm  with  earnest  life  and  feeling,  rose  his  prayer  of  love  and  praise. 

But  he  started  at  beholding,  as  he  rose  from  off  his  knee, 
The  stranger  cross  his  forehead  with  the  sign  of  Papistrie. 

"What  is  this?"  cried  Farmer  Garvin.     "  Is  an  English  Christian's  home 
A  chapel  or  a  mass-house,  that  you  make  the  sign  of  Rome  ? " 

Then  the  young  girl  knelt  beside  him,  kissed  his  trembling  hand,  and  cried : 
"  O,  forbear  to  chide  my  father;  in  that  faith  my  mother  died! 

"  On  her  wooden  cross  at  Simcoe  the  dews  and  sunshine  fall, 

As  they  fall  on  Spurwink's  graveyard ;  and  the  dear  God  watches  all!  " 

The  old  man  stroked  the  fair  head  that  rested  on  his  knee ; 

"  Your  words,  dear  child,"  he  answered,  "  are  God's  rebuke  to  me. 

"  Creed  and  rite  perchance  may  differ,  yet  our  faith  and  hope  be  one. 
Let  me  be  your  fathers  father,  let  him  be  to  me  a  son.1' 

When  the  horn,  on  Sabbath  morning,  through  the  still  and  frosty  air, 
From  Spurwink,  Pool,  and  Black  Point,  called  to  sermon  and  to  prayer, 

To  the  goodly  house  of  worship,  where,  in  order  due  and  fit, 
As  by  public  vote  directed,  classed  and  ranked  the  people  sit ; 

Mistress  first  and  goodwife  after,  clerkly  squire  before  the  clown, 

From  the  brave  coat,  lace  embroidered,  to  the  gray  frock,  shading  down ; 

From  the  pulpit  read  the  preacher,  —  "  Goodman  Garvin  and  his  wife 
Fain  would  thank  the  Lord,  whose  kindness  has  followed  them  through  life, 

"  For  the  great  and  crowning  mercy,  that  their  daughter,  from  the  wild, 
Where  she  rests  (they  hope  in  God's  peace),  has  sent  to  them  her  child ; 

"  And  the  prayers  of  all  God's  people  they  ask,  that  they  may  prove 
Not  unworthy,  through  their  weakness,  of  such  special  proof  of  love." 

As  the  preacher  prayed,  uprising,  the  aged  couple  stood, 
And  the  fair  Canadian  also,  in  her  modest  maidenhood. 

Thought  the  elders,  grave  and  doubting,  "  She  is  Papist  born  and  bred"; 
Thought  the  young  men,  "Tis  an  angel  in  Mary  Garvin's  stead! " 


258 


BALLADS. 


MAUD   MULLER. 

MAUD  MULLER,  on  a  summer's  day, 
Raked  the  meadow  sweet  with  hay. 

Beneath    her   torn    hat    glowed    the 

wealth 
Of  simple  beauty  and  rustic  health. 

Singing,  she  wrought,  and  her  merry 

glee 
The  mock-bird  echoed  from  his  tree. 

But  when  she  glanced  to  the  far-off 

town. 
White    from    its    hill-slope    looking 

down, 

The  sweet  song  died,  and  a  vague  un- 
rest 

And  a  nameless  longing  filled  her 
breast,  — 

A  wish,   that   she    hardly   dared   to 


For  something  better  than  she   had 
known. 


The  Judge  rode  slowly  down  the  lane, 
Smoothing  his  horse's  chestnut  mane. 

He  drew  his  bridle  in  the  shade 

Of  the  apple-trees,  to  greet  the  maid, 

And  ask  a  draught  from    the  spring 

that  flowed 
Through  the  meadow  across  the  road. 

She  stooped  where   the  cool   spring 

bubbled  up. 
And  filled  for  him  her  small  tin  cup, 

And  blushed  as  she  gave  it,  looking 

down 
On  her  feet  so  bare,  and  her  tattered 

gown. 

"  Thanks !  "    said     the     Judge  ;     "  a 
sweeter  draught 


From  a  fairer  hand  was  never 
quaffed." 

He  spoke  of  the  grass  and  flowers 
and  trees, 

Of  the  singing  birds  and  the  hum- 
ming bees ; 

Then  talked  of  the  haying,  and  won- 
dered whether 

The  cloud  in  the  west  would  bring 
foul  weather. 

And  Maud  forgot  her  brier-torn  gown, 
And   her  graceful    ankles    bare   and 
brown ; 

And  listened,  while  a  pleased  surprise 
Looked   from   her  long-lashed   hazel 
eyes. 

At  last,  like  one  who  for  delay 
Seeks  a  vain  excuse,  he  rode  away. 

Maud    Muller    looked    and    sighed : 

"  Ah  me ! 
That  I  the  Judge's  bride  might  be! 

"  He  would  dress  me  up  in  silks  so 

fine, 
And  praise  and  toast  me  at  his  wine. 

"  My  father  should  wear  a  broadcloth 

coat ; 
My   brother  should    sail    a    painted 

boat. 

"  I  'd  dress  my  mother  so  grand  and 

gay> 

And  the  baby  should  have  a  new  toy 
each  day. 

"  And  I  'd  feed  the  hungry  and  clothe 

the  poor, 
And  all  should  bless  me  who  left  our 

door." 

The  Judge  looked  back  as  he  climbed 

the  hill, 
And  saw  Maud  Muller  standing  still. 


MAUD   MULLER. 


259 


"  A  form  more  fair,  a  face  more  sweet, 
Ne'er  hath  it  been  my  lot  to  meet. 

"And  her  modest  answer  and  grace- 
ful air 

Show  her  wise  and  good  as  she  is 
fair. 

"  Would  she  were  mine,  and  I  to-day, 
Like  her,  a  harvester  of  hay : 

"  No  doubtful  balance  of  rights  and 

wrongs, 
Nor     weary    lawyers    with     endless 

tongues, 

"  But  low  of  cattle  and  song  of  birds, 
And    health    and   quiet    and    loving 
words.1' 

But  he  thought  of  his  sisters  proud 

and  cold, 
And  his  mother  vain  of  her  rank  and 

gold. 

So,  closing  his  heart,  the  Judge  rode 

on, 
And  Maud  was  left  in  the  field  alone. 

But  the  lawyers  smiled  that  after- 
noon, 

When  he  hummed  in  court  an  old 
love-tune ; 

And  the  young  girl  mused  beside  the 

well, 
Till   the  rain  on  the  unraked  clover 

fell. 

He  wedded  a  wife  of  richest  dower, 
Who   lived    for    fashion,    as    he    for 
power. 

Yet  oft,  in  his  marble  hearth's  bright 

glow, 
He  watched  a  picture  come  and  go ; 

And  sweet  Maud  Muller's  hazel  eyes 
Looked  out   in    their    innocent    sur- 
prise. 


Oft,  when  the  wine  in  his  glass  was 
red, 

He  longed  for  the  wayside  well  in- 
stead ; 

And  closed  his  eyes  on  his  garnished 
rooms, 

To  dream  of  meadows  and  clover- 
blooms. 

And   the  proud  man  sighed,  with  a 

secret  pain, 
"Ah,  that  I  were  free  again! 

"  Free  as  when  I  rode  that  day, 
Where  the  barefoot  maiden  raked  her 
hay." 

She  wedded   a  man   unlearned   and 

poor, 
And  many  children  played  round  her 

door. 

But  care  and  sorrow,  and  childbirth 

pain, 
Left  their  traces  on  heart  and  brain. 

And  oft,  when  the  summer  sun  shone 

hot 
On  the  new-mown  hay  in  the  meadow 

lot, 

And  she  heard  the  little  spring  brook 

fall 
Over  the  roadside,  through  the  wall, 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree  again 
She  saw  a  rider  draw  his  rein. 

And,  gazing  down  with  timid  grace, 
She   felt   his   pleased   eyes  read  her 
face. 

Sometimes  her  narrow  kitchen  walls 
Stretched  away  into  stately  halls  ; 

The     weary     wheel     to     a    spinnet 

turned, 
The  tallow  candle  an  astral  burned, 


260 


BALLADS. 


And  for  him  who  sat  by  the  chimney 

lug, 
Dozing  and  grumbling  o'er  pipe  and 

mug, 

A  manly  form  at  her  side  she  saw, 
And  joy  was  duty  and  love  was  law. 

Then  she  took  up  her  burden  of  life 

again, 
Saying  only,  "  It  might  have  been." 

Alas  for  maiden,  alas  for  Judge, 
For     rich     repiner    and     household 
drudge ! 

God  pity  them  both !  and  pity  us  all, 
Who   vainly   the    dreams    of    youth 
recall. 

For  of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen, 
The   saddest   are   these :    "  It    might 
have  been!" 

Ah,  well!  for  us  all  some  sweet  hope 

lies 
Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes  ; 

And,  in  the  hereafter,  angels  may 
Roll  the  stone  from  its  grave  away! 


THE   RANGER. 

ROBERT  RAWLIN  !  —  Frosts  were  fall- 
ing 
When  the  ranger's  horn  was  calling 

Through  the  woods  to  Canada. 
Gone  the  winter's  sleet  and  snowing, 
Gone  the  spring-time's  bud  and  blow- 
ing? 
Gone  the  summer's  harvest  mowing, 

And  again  the  fields  are  gray. 

Yet  away,  he 's  away ! 
Faint  and  fainter  hope  is  growing 

In  the  hearts  that  mourn  his  stay. 

Where  the  lion,  crouching  high  on 
Abraham's  rock  with  teeth  of  iron, 
Glares  o'er  wood  and  wave  away, 


Faintly  thence,  as  pines  far  sighing, 
Or  as  thunder  spent  and  dying, 
Come  the  challenge  and  replying, 

Come  the  sounds  of  flight  and  fray. 

Well-a-day!     Hope  and  pray! 
Some  are  living,  some  are  lying 

In  their  red  graves  far  away. 

Straggling  rangers,  worn  with  clangers, 
Homeward  faring,  weary  strangers 

Pass  the  farm-gate  on  their  way ; 
Tidings  of  the  dead  and  living, 
Forest  march  and  ambush,  giving, 
Till  the  maidens  leave  their  weaving, 

And  the  lads  forget  their  play. 

"  Still  away,  still  away !  " 
Sighs  a  sad  one,  sick  with  grieving, 

"  Why  does  Robert  still  delay ! " 

Nowhere  fairer,  sweeter,  rarer, 
Does  the  golden-locked  fruit-bearer 

Through     his    painted   woodlands 

stray, 

Than  where  hillside  oaks  and  beeches 
Overlook  the  long,  blue  reaches, 
Silver  coves  and  pebbled  beaches, 

And  green  isles  of  Casco  Bay  ; 

Nowhere  day,  for  delay, 
With  a  tenderer  look  beseeches, 
"  Let    me   with    my   charmed    earth 
stay." 

On  the  grain-lands  of  the  mainlands 
Stands   the   serried  corn   like  train- 
bands, 

Plume  and  pennon  rustling  gay ; 
Out  at  sea,  the  islands  wooded, 
Silver  birches,  golden-hooded, 
Set  with  maples,  crimson-blooded, 

White  sea-foam  and  sand-hills  gray, 

Stretch  away,  far  away, 
Dim  and  dreamy,  over-brooded 

By  the  hazy  autumn  day. 

Gayly  chattering  to  the  clattering 
Of  the  brown  nuts  downward  patter- 
ing? 

Leap  the  squirrels,  red  and  gray. 
On  the  grass-land,  on  the  fallow, 
Drop  the  apples,  red  and  yellow ; 


THE   RANGER. 


261 


Drop  the  russet  pears  and  mellow, 
Drop  the  red  leaves  all  the  day. 
And  away,  swift  away, 

Sun  and  cloud,  o'er  hill  and  hollow 
Chasing,  weave  their  web  of  play. 

"  Martha  Mason,  Martha  Mason, 
Prithee  tell  us  of  the  reason 

Why  you  mope  at  home  to-day : 
Surely  smiling  is  not  sinning ; 
Leave  your  quilling,  leave  your  spin- 
ning; 
What  is  all  your  store  of  linen, 

If  your  heart  is  never  gay? 

Come  away,  come  away ! 
Never  yet  did  sad  beginning 

Make  the  task  of  life  a  play." 

Overbending,  till  she's  blending 
With  the  flaxen  skein  she  's  tending 

Pale  brown  tresses  smoothed  away 
From  her  face  of  patient  sorrow, 
Sits  she,  seeking  but  to  borrow, 
From  the  trembling  hope  of  morrow, 

Solace  for  the  weary  day. 

u  Go  your  way,  laugh  and  play  ; 
Unto  Him  who  heeds  the  sparrow 

And  the  lily,  let  me  pray." 

"  With  our  rail}',  rings  the  valley,  — 
Join  us!"  cried  the  blue-eyed  Nelly; 

"  Join  us !  "  cried  the  laughing  May  : 
"  To  the  beach  we  all  are  going, 
And,  to  save  the  task  of  rowing, 
West  by  north  the  wind  is  blowing, 

Blowing  briskly  down  the  bay! 

Come  away,  come  away ! 
Time  and  tide  are  swiftly  flowing, 

Let  us  take  them  while  we  may ! 

"  Never  tell  us  that  you  '11  fail  us, 
Where  the  purple  beach-plum  mellows 

On  the  bluffs  so  wild  and  gray. 
Hasten,  for  the  oars  are  falling ; 
Hark,  our  merry  mates  are  calling  : 
Time  it  is  that  we  were  all  in, 

Singing  tideward  down  the  bay !  " 

"  Nay,  nay,  let  me  stay  ; 
Sore  and  sad  for  Robert  Rawlin 

Is  my  heart,"  she  said,  "  to-day." 


"  Vain  your  calling  for  Rob  Rawlin ! 
Some  red  squaw  his    moose-meat's 
broiling, 

Or  some  French  lass,  singing  gay ; 
Just  forget  as  he's  forgetting; 
What  avails  a  life  of  fretting? 
If  some  stars  must  needs  be  setting, 

Others  rise  as  good  as  they." 

"  Cease,  I  pray  ;  go  your  way ! " 
Martha  cries,  her  eyelids  wetting ; 

u  Foul   and   false  the  words     you 
say!  " 

"  Martha  Mason,  hear  to  reason ! 
Prithee,  put  a  kinder  face  on  !  " 

"  Cease  to  vex  me,"  did  she  say  ; 
"  Better  at  his  side  be  lying, 
With  the  mournful  pine-trees  sighing, 
And  the  wild  birds  o'er  us  crying, 

Than  to  doubt  like  mine  a  prey ; 

While  away,  far  away, 
Turns  my  heart,  forever  trying 

Some  new  hope  for  each  new  day. 

"  When  the  shadows  veil  the  mead- 
ows, 
And  the  sunset's  golden  ladders 

Sink  from  twilight's  walls  of  gray,  — 
From  the  window  of  my  dreaming, 
I  can  see  his  sickle  gleaming, 
Cheery-voiced,  can  hear  him  teaming 

Down  the  locust-shaded  way ; 

But  away,  swift  away, 
Fades  the  fond,  delusive  seeming, 

And  I  kneel  again  to  pray. 

"  When  the  growing  dawn  is  showing, 
And  the  barn-yard  cock  is  crowing, 

And  the  horned  moon  pales  away : 
From  a  dream  of  him  awaking, 
Every  sound  my  heart  is  making 
Seems  a  footstep  of  his  taking; 

Then  I  hush  the  thought,  and  say, 

'  Nay,  nay,  he's  away! ' 
Ah !  my  heart,  my  heart  is  breaking 

For  the  dear  one  far  away." 

Look  up,  Martha!  worn  and  swarthy, 
Glows  a  face  of  manhood  worthy  : 
"  Robert ! "  "Martha ! "  all  they  say. 


262 


LATER   POEMS. 


O'er  went  wheel  and  reel  together, 
Little  cared  the  owner  whither ; 
Heart  of  lead  is  heart  of  feather, 

Noon  of  night  is  noon  of  day! 

Come  away,  come  away! 
When  such  lovers  meet  each  other, 

Why  should  prying  idlers  stay  ? 

Quench     the     timber's     fallen     em- 
bers, 


Quench   the   red   leaves   in    Decem- 
bers 

Hoary  rime  and  chilly  spray. 
But  the  hearth  shall  kindle  clearer, 
Household  welcomes  sound  sincerer, 
Heart  to  loving  heart  draw  nearer, 

When  the  bridal  bells  shall  say  : 

"  Hope  and  pray,  trust  alway  ; 
Life  is  sweeter,  love  is  dearer, 

For  the  trial  and  delay  !  " 


LATER    POEMS,    1856-1857. 


THE   LAST  WALK   IN 
AUTUMN. 


O'ER   the  bare  woods,  whose  out- 
stretched hands 
Plead  with  the  leaden  heavens  in 

vain, 

I  see,  beyond  the  valley  lands, 
The  sea's   long  level  dim  with 

rain. 
Around   me  all   things,  stark  and 

dumb, 
Seem    praying    for   the   snows   to 

come, 
And,   for    the    summer    bloom    and 

greenness  gone, 

With  winter's  sunset  lights  and  daz- 
zling morn  atone. 


Along  the  river's  summer  walk, 

The  withered  tufts  of  asters  nod  ; 
And  trembles  on  its  arid  stalk 
The  hoar  plume  of  the  golden- 
rod. 

And  on  a  ground  of  sombre  fir, 
And  azure-studded  juniper, 
The   silver  birch    its  buds  of  purple 

shows, 

And     scarlet      berries     tell     where 
bloomed  the  sweet  wild-rose ! 


in. 

With  mingled  sound  of  horns  and 

bells, 
A  far-heard  clang,  the  wild  geese 

%? 
Storm-sent,  from  Arctic  moors  and 

fells, 
Like  a  great  arrow  through  the 

sky, 
Two    dusky    lines    converged    in 

one, 

Chasing  the  southward-flying  sun  ; 
While   the  brave  snow-bird  and  the 

hardy  jay 

Call  to  them  from  the  pines,  as  if  to 
bid  them  stay. 

IV. 

I  passed  this  way  a  year  ago  : 
The  wind  blew  south  ;  the  noon 

of  day 
Was   warm  as  June's ;    and   save 

that  snow 
Flecked   the   low  mountains   far 

away, 

And  that  the  vernal-seeming  breeze 
Mocked   faded  grass   and    leafless 

trees, 
I  might  have  dreamed  of  summer  as 

I  lay, 

Watching  the  fallen  leaves  with  the 
soft  wind  at  play. 


THE  LAST  WALK  IN  AUTUMN. 


263 


Since  then,  the  winter  blasts  have 

piled 

The  white  pagodas  of  the  snow 
On  these  rough  slopes,  and,  strong 

and  wild. 

Yon  river,  in  its  overflow 
Of  spring-time  rain  and  sun,  set  free, 
Crashed  with  its  ices  to  the  sea ; 
And    over    these    gray    fields,    then 

green  and  gold, 

The   summer   corn    has   waved,    the 
thunder's  organ  rolled. 


Rich  gift  of  God!     A  year  of  time! 
What  pomp  of  rise  and  shut  of 

day, 
What  hues  wherewith  our  Northern 

clime 

Makes  autumn's  dropping  wood- 
lands gay, 
What    airs    outblown    from   ferny 

dells, 
And   clover-bloom  and  sweetbrier 

smells, 
What   songs   of    brooks   and    birds, 

what  fruits  and  flowers, 
Green    woods    and    moonlit    snows, 
have  in  its  round  been  ours ! 

VII. 

I  know  not  how,  in  other  lands, 
The  changing  seasons  come  and 

go ; 
WTiat    splendors    foil     on    Syrian 

sands, 
What   purple    lights   on   Alpine 

snow ! 

Nor  how  the  pomp  of  sunrise  waits 
On  Venice  at  her  watery  gates  ; 
A  dream  alone  to  me  is  Arno's  vale, 
And  the  Alhambra's  halls  are  but  a 
traveller's  tale. 

VIII. 

Yet,  on  life's  current,  he  who  drifts 
Is   one   with    him  who  rows   or 
sails ; 


And  he  who  wanders  widest  lifts 
No    more    of    beauty's     jealous 

veils 
Than   he   who   from   his   doorway 

sees 

The  miracle  of  flowers  and  trees, 
Feels  the  warm  Orient  in  the  noon- 
day air. 

And   from  cloud  minarets  hears   the 
sunset  call  to  prayer ! 

IX. 

The   eye   may  well   be   glad,    that 

looks 
Where    Pharpar's   fountains  rise 

and  fall ; 

But  he  who  sees  his  native  brooks 
Laugh  in  the  sun,  has  seen  them 

all. 

The  marble  palaces  of  Ind 
Rise  round  him  in   the  snow  and 

wind ; 
From  his  lone  sweetbrier  Persian  Ha- 

fiz  smiles, 

And  Rome's  cathedral  awe  is  in  his 
woodland  aisles. 

x. 

And  thus  it  is  my  fancy  blends 
The  near  at  hand  and  far  and 

rare ; 
And  while  the  same  horizon  bends 

Above  the  silver-sprinkled  hair 
Which  flashed  the  light  of  morning 

skies 

On  childhood's  wonder-lifted  eyes. 
Within  its  round  of  sea  and  sky  and 

field, 

Earth  wheels  with  all  her  zones,  the 
Kosmos  stands  revealed. 

XI. 

And  thus  the  sick  man  on  his  bed, 
The     toiler    to     his     task-work 

bound, 

Behold  their  prison-walls  outspread, 
Their    clipped     horizon     widen 
round! 


264 


LATER  POEMS. 


While  freedom-giving  fancy  waits, 
Like  Peter's  angel  at  the  gates, 
The  power  is  theirs  to  baffle  care  and 

pain, 

To   bring  the  lost  world  back,  and 
make  it  theirs  again ! 

XII. 

What  lack  of  goodly  company, 

When  masters  of  the  ancient  lyre 
Obey  my  call,  and  trace  for  me 
Their  words  of  mingled  tears  and 

fire! 

I  talk  with  Bacon,  grave  and  wise, 
I    read    the   world    with    Pascal's 

eyes; 
And  priest    and   sage,   with   solemn 

brows  austere, 

And  poets,  garland-bound,  the  Lords 
of  Thought,  draw  near. 

xm. 

Methinks,    O   friend,   I   hear   thee 

say, 
"  In   vain   the   human   heart  we 

mock; 
Bring  living  guests  who   love   the 

day, 
Not  ghosts  who  fly  at   crow  of 

cock! 
The  herbs  we  share  with  flesh  and 

blood, 

Are  better  than  ambrosial  food, 
With  laurelled  shades."     I  grant   it, 

nothing  loath, 

But  doubly  blest  is  he  who  can  par- 
take of  both. 


XIV. 

He    who    might    Plato's    banquet 

grace, 

Have  I  not  seen  before  me  sit, 
And  watched  his  puritanic  face, 
With  more  than  Eastern  wisdom 

lit? 
Shrewd    mystic!    who,    upon    the- 

back 
Of  his  Poor  Richard's  Almanack, 


Writing  the  Sufi's  song,  the  Gentoo's 
dream, 

Links  Menu's  age  of  thought  to  Ful- 
ton's age  of  steam ! 


Here  too,  of  answering  love  secure, 
Have  I    not   welcomed    to    my 

hearth 

The  gentle  pilgrim  troubadour, 
Whose   songs  have  girdled  half 

the  earth ; 

Whose  pages,  like  the  magic  mat 
Whereon  the  Eastern  lover  sat, 
Have   borne    me   over    Rhine-land's 

purple  vines, 

And  Nubia's  tawny  sands,  and  Phry- 
gia's  mountain  pines ! 

XVI. 

And  he,  who  to  the  lettered  wealth 

Of  ages  adds  the  lore  unpriced, 
The  wisdom  and  the  moral  health, 
The  ethics   of    the     school     of 

Christ ; 

The  statesman  to  his  holy  trust, 
As  the  Athenian  archon,  just. 
Struck  down,  exiled  like  him  for  truth 

alone, 

Has   he   not  graced   my  home   with 
beauty  all  his  own? 

XVII. 

What  greetings   smile,  what   fare- 
wells wave, 

What  loved  ones  enter  and  de- 
part! 

The  good,  the  beautiful,  the  brave, 
The  Heaven-lent  treasures  of  the 

heart! 
How   conscious  seems  the   frozen 

sod 
And  beechen   slope  whereon  they 

trod! 
The   oak-leaves   rustle,   and  the  dry 

grass  bends 

Beneath  the  shadowy  feet  of  lost  or 
absent  friends. 


THE   LAST   WALK   IN  AUTUMN. 


265 


XVIII. 

Then  ask  not  why  to  these  bleak 

hills 

I  cling,  as  clings  the  tufted  moss, 

To  bear  the  winter's  lingering  chills. 

The  mocking  spring's  perpetual 

loss. 
I  dream   of  lands   where   summer 

smiles, 
And   soft  winds   blow   from   spicy 

isles, 
But  scarce  would  Ceylon's  breath  of 

flowers  be  sweet, 

Could  I  not  feel  thy  soil,  New  Eng- 
land, at  my  feet ! 

XIX. 

At  times  I  long  for  gentler  skies, 
And  bathe  in  dreams   of  softer 

air, 
But   homesick  tears  would  fill  the 

eyes 
That  saw  the  Cross  without  the 

Bear. 

The  pine  must  whisper  to  the  palm, 
The  north-wind   break   the   tropic 

calm  ; 
And  with  the  dreamy  languor  of  the 

Line, 

The  North's   keen  virtue  blend,  and 
strength  to  beauty  join. 

xx. 

Better  to   stem     with    heart    and 

hand 

The  roaring  tide  of  life,  than  lie. 
Unmindful,  on  its  flowery  strand, 
Of  God's  occasions  drifting  by ! 
Better  with  naked  nerve  to  bear 
The  needles  of  this  goading  air, 
Than,  in    the  lap   of  sensual    ease, 

forego 

The  godlike  power  to  do,  the  godlike 
aim  to  know. 

XXI. 

Home    of  my  heart !  to  me  more 
fair 


Than  gay  Versailles  or  Windsor's 

halls, 
The   painted,    shingly   town-house 

where 
The  freeman's  vote  for  Freedom 

falls! 
The   simple  roof  where   prayer  is 

made, 

Than  Gothic  groin  and  colonnade  ; 
The   living   temple   of  the    heart   of 

man, 

Than   Rome's   sky-mocking  vault,  or 
many-spired  Milan! 

xxn. 

More     dear     thy     equal     village 

schools, 
Where  rich  and  poor  the  Bible 

read, 
Than  classic  halls  where  Priestcraft 

rules, 
And  Learning  wears  the  chains 

of  Creed ; 
Thy  glad  Thanksgiving,  gathering 

in 
The  scattered  sheaves  of  home  and 

kin, 

Than  the  mad  license  following  Len- 
ten pains, 

Or  holidays  of  slaves  who  laugh  and 
dance  in  chains. 

XXIII. 

And  sweet  homes  nestle  in  these 

dales, 
And  perch  along  these  wooded 

swells ; 

And,  blest  beyond  Arcadian  vales, 
They  hear  the  sound  of  Sabbath 

bells! 

Here  dwells  no  perfect  man   sub- 
lime, 
Nor    woman    winged    before   her 

time, 
But  with  the  faults  and  follies  of  th^ 

race, 

Old  home-bred  virtues  held  their  not 
unhonored  place. 


266 


LATER   POEMS. 


XXIV. 

Here   manhood    struggles    for  the 

sake 

Of  mother,  sister,  daughter,  wife, 
The  graces   and   the  loves   which 

make 

The  music  of  the  march  of  life  ; 
And  woman,  in  her  daily  round 
Of  duty,  walks  on  holy  ground. 
No  unpaid  menial  tills  the  soil,  nor 

here 

Is  the  bad  lesson  learned  it  human 
rights  to  sneer. 

XXV. 

Then  let  the  icy  north-wind  blow 
The   trumpets    of    the     coming 

storm, 

To  arrowy  sleet  and  blinding  snow 
Yon  slanting  lines  of  rain  trans- 
form. 
Young  hearts  shall  hail  the  drifted 

cold, 

As  gayly  as  I  did  of  old  ; 
And  I,  who  watch  them  through  the 

frosty  pane, 

Unenvious,  live  in  them  my  boyhood 
o'er  again. 

XXVI. 

And  I  will  trust  that  He  who  heeds 
The  life  that  hides  in  mead  and 

wold, 
Who   hangs   yon    alder's   crimson 

beads, 
And  stains  these   mosses   green 

and  gold, 

Will  still,  as  He  hath  done,  incline 

His  gracious  care  to  me  and  mine ; 

Grant  what  we  ask  aright,  from  wrong 

debar, 

And,  as  the  earth  grows  dark,  make 
brighter  every  star! 

XXVII. 

I  have  not  seen,  I  may  not  see, 
My  hopes  for  man  take  form  in 
fact, 


But  God  will  give  the  victory 

In  due  time  ;  in  that  faith  I  act. 
And  he  who  sees  the  future  sure, 
The  baffling  present  may  endure, 
And     bless,    meanwhile,  the  unseen 

Hand  that  leads 

The  heart's  desires  beyond  the  halt- 
ing step  of  deeds. 

XXVIII. 

And  thou,  my   song,    I  send  thee 

forth, 
Where   harsher   songs   of  mine 

have  flown ; 

Go,  find  a  place  at  home  and  hearth 
Where'er   thy   singer's  name    is 

known ; 

Revive  for  him  the  kindly  thought 
Of  friends  ;  and  they  who  love  him 

not, 

Touched  by  some  strain  of  thine,  per- 
chance may  take 

The  hand  he  proffers  all,  and  thank 
him  for  thy  sake. 


THE  MAYFLOWERS. 

The  trailing  arbutus,  or  mayfiower,  grows 
abundantly  in  the  vicinity  of  Plymouth,  and 
was  the  first  flower  that  greeted  the  Pilgrims 
after  their  fearful  winter. 

SAD   Mayflower!  watched  by   winter 
stars, 

And  nursed  by  winter  gales, 
With  petals  of  the  sleeted  spars, 

And  leaves  of  frozen  sails ! 

What  had  she  in  those  dreary  hours, 
Within  her  ice-rimmed  bay. 

In    common     with     the     wild-wood 

flowers, 
The  first  sweet  smiles  of  May? 

Yet,  «  God  be  praised!"  the 'Pilgrim 

said, 

Who  saw  the  blossoms  peer 
Above   the  brown   leaves,   dry     and 

dead, 
"  Behold  our  Mayflower  here ! " 


BURIAL   OF  BARBOUR, 


267 


"  God  wills  it :  here  our  rest  shall  be, 
Our  years  of  wandering  o'er, 

For  us  the  Mayflower  of  the  sea, 
Shall  spread  her  sails  no  more.1' 

O  sacred  flowers  of  faith  and  hope, 

As  sweetly  now  as  then 
Ye  bloom  on  many  a  birchen  slope, 

In  many  a  pine-dark  glen. 

Behind  the  sea-wall's  rugged  length, 
Unchanged,  your  leaves  unfold, 

Like  love  behind  the  manly  strength 
Of  the  brave  hearts  of  old. 

So  live  the  fathers  in  their  sons, 
Their  sturdy  faith  be  ours, 

And  ours  the  love  that  overruns 
Its  rocky  strength  with  flowers. 

The    Pilgrim's  wild    and  wintry  day 
Its  shadow  round  us  draws ; 

The  Mayflower  of  his  stormy  bay, 
Our  Freedom's  struggling  cause. 

But  warmer  suns  erelong  shall  bring 

To  life  the  frozen  sod  ; 
And,  through  dead   leaves   of  hope, 
shall  spring 

Afresh  the  flowers  of  God! 


BURIAL   OF   BARBOUR. 

BEAR  him,  comrades,  to  his  grave ; 
Never  over  one  more  brave 

Shall  the  prairie  grasses  weep, 
In  the  ages  yet  to  come, 
When  the  millions  in  our  room, 

What  we  sow  in  tears,  shall  reap. 

Bear  him  up  the  icy  hill, 
With  the  Kansas,  frozen  still 

As  his  noble  heart,  below, 
And  the  land  he  came  to  till 
With  a  freeman's  thews  and  will, 

And  his  poor  hut  roofed  with  snow ! 

One  more  look  of  that  dead  face, 
Of  his  murder's  ghastly  trace! 


One  more  kiss,  O  widowed  one! 
Lay  your  left  hands  on  his  brow, 
Lift  your  right  hands  up,  and  vow 

That  his  work  shall  yet  be  done. 

Patience,  friends!     The  eye  of  God 
Every  path  by  Murder  trod 

Watches,  lidless,  day  and  night ; 
And  the  dead  man  in  his  shroud, 
And  his  widow  weeping  loud, 

And  our  hearts,  are  in  his  sight. 

Every  deadly  threat  that  swells 
With  the  roar  of  gambling  hells, 

Every  brutal  jest  and  jeer, 
Every  wicked  thought  and  plan 
Of  the  cruel  heart  of  man, 

Though  but  whispered,  He  can  hear ! 

We  in  suffering,  they  in  crime, 
Wait  the  just  award  of  time, 

Wait  the  vengeance  that  is  due ; 
Not  in  vain  a  heart  shall  break, 
Not  a  tear  for  Freedom's  sake 

Fall  unheeded  :  God  is  true. 

While  the  flag  with  stars  bedecked 
Threatens  where  it  should  protect, 

And  the   Law   shakes  hands  with 

Crime, 

WThat  is  left  us  but  to  wait, 
Match  our  patience  to  our  fate, 

And  abide  the  better  time? 

Patience,  friends !     The  human  heart 
Everywhere  shall  take  our  part, 

Everywhere  for  us  shall  pray  ; 
On  our  side  are  nature's  laws, 
And  God's  life  is  in  the  cause 

That  we  suffer  for  to-day. 

Well  to  suffer  is  divine  ; 

Pass  the  watchword  down  the  line, 

Pass  the  countersign  :  "  ENDURE." 
Not  to  him  who  rashly  dares, 
But  to  him  who  nobly  bears, 

Is  the  victor's  garland  sure. 

Frozen  earth  to  frozen  breast, 
Lay  our  slain  one  down  to  rest ; 


268 


LATER   POEMS. 


Lay  him  down  in  hope  and  faith, 
And  above  the  broken  sod, 
Once  again,  to  Freedom's  God, 

Pledge  ourselves  for  life  or  death,  — 

That  the  State  whose  walls  we  lay, 
In  our  blood  and  tears,  to-day, 

Shall  be  free  from  bonds  of  shame, 
And  our  goodly  land  untrod 
By  the  feet  of  Slavery,  shod 

With  cursing  as  with  flame ! 

Plant  the  Buckeye  on  his  grave, 
For  the  hunter  of  the  slave 

In  its  shadow  cannot  rest ; 
And  let  martyr  mound  and  tree 
Be  our  pledge  and  guaranty 

Of  the  freedom  of  the  West! 


TO   PENNSYLVANIA. 

O  STATE  prayer-founded !  never  hung 
Such  choice  upon  a  people's  tongue, 

Such  power  to  bless  or  ban, 
As  that  which  makes  thy  whisper  Fate, 
For  which  on  thee  the  centuries  wait, 

And  destinies  of  man ! 

Across  thy  Alleghanian  chain, 
With  groanings  from  a  land  in  pain, 

The  west-wind  finds  its  way : 
Wild-wailing  from  Missouri's  flood 
The  crying  of  thy  children's  blood 

Is  in  thy  ears  to-day! 

And  unto  thee  in  Freedom's  hour 
Of  sorest  need  God  gives  the  power 

To  ruin  or  to  save  ; 
To  wound  or  heal,  to  blight  or  bless 
With  fertile  field  or  wilderness, 

A  free  home  or  a  grave ! 

Then  let  thy  virtue  match  the  crime, 
Rise  to  a  level  with  the  time ; 

And,  if  a  son  of  thine 
Betray  or  tempt  thee,  Brutus-like 
For  Fatherland  and  Freedom  strike 

As  Justice  gives  the  sign. 


Wake,  sleeper,  from  thy  dream  of  ease, 
The  great  occasion's  forelock  seize  ; 

And,  let  the  north-wind  strong, 
And  golden  leaves  of  autumn,  be 
Thy  coronal  of  Victory 

And  thy  triumphal  song. 
\Qth  mo.,  1856. 


THE   PASS    OF    THE    SIERRA. 

ALL  night  above  their  rocky  bed 
They  saw  the  stars  march  slow ; 

The  wild  Sierra  overhead, 
The  desert's  death  below. 

The  Indian  from  his  lodge  of  bark, 
The  gray  bear  from  his  den, 

Beyond  their  camp-fire's  wall  of  dark, 
Glared  on  the  mountain  men. 

Still  upward  turned,  with  anxious  strain 
Their  leader's  sleepless  eye, 

Where  splinters  of  the  mountain  chain 
Stood  black  against  the  sky. 

The  night  waned  slow  :  at  last,  a  glow, 

A  gleam  of  sudden  fire, 
Shot  up  behind  the  walls  of  snow, 

And  tipped  each  icy  spire. 

"  Up,   men !  "    he  cried,   "  yon   rocky 
cone, 

To-day,  please  God,  we  '11  pass, 
And  look  from  Winter's  frozen  throne 

On  Summer's  flowers  and  grass ! " 

They  set  their  faces  to  the  blast, 
They  trod  the  eternal  snow, 

And  faint,  worn,  bleeding,  hailed  at  last 
The  promised  land  below. 

Behind,    they  saw    the     snow-cloud 
tossed 

By  many  an  icy  horn  ; 
Before,  warm  valleys,  wood-embossed, 

And  green  with  vines  and  corn. 

They  left  the  Winter  at  their  backs 
To  flap  his  barrled  wing, 


THE   CONQUEST  OF   FINLAND. 


269 


And  downward,  with  the  cataracts, 
Leaped  to  the  lap  of  Spring. 

Strong  leader  of  that  mountain  band, 

Another  task  remains, 
To  break  from  Slavery's  desert  land 

A  path  to  Freedom's  plains. 

The  winds  are  wild,  the  way  is-  drear, 
Yet,  flashing  through  the  night, 

Lo !  icy  ridge  and  rocky  spear 
Blaze  out  in  morning  light ! 

Rise  up,  FREMONT!  and  go  before; 

The  Hour  must  have  its  Man  ; 
Put  on  the  hunting-shirt  once  more, 

And  lead  in  Freedom's  van! 
1856. 


THE   CONQUEST   OF   FIN- 
LAND. 

ACROSS  the  frozen  marshes 
The  winds  of  autumn  blow, 

And  the  fen-lands  of  the  Wetter 
Are  white  with  early  snow. 

But  where  the  low,  gray  headlands 
Look  o'er  the  Baltic  brine, 

A  bark  is  sailing  in  the  track 
Of  England's  battle-line. 

No  wares  hath  she  to  barter 
For  Bothnia's  fish  and  grain  ; 

She  saileth  not  for  pleasure, 
She  saileth  not  for  gain. 

But  still  by  isle  or  main-land 
She  drops  her  anchor  down, 

Where'er  the  British  cannon 
Rained  fire  on  tower  and  town. 

Outspake  the  ancient  Amtman, 
At  the  gate  of  Helsingfors  : 

"  Why  comes  this  ship  a-spying 
In  the  track  of  England's  wars?  " 


"God    bless    her,"   said    the    coast- 
guard, — 

"  God  bless  the  ship,  I  say. 
The  holy  angels  trim  the  sails 

That  speed  her  on  her  way! 

"  Where'er  she  drops  her  anchor, 
The  peasant's  heart  is  glad  ; 

Where'er  she  spreads  her  parting  sail, 
The  peasant's  heart  is  sad. 

"  Each  wasted  town  and  hamlet 

She  visits  to  restore  ; 
To  roof  the  shattered  cabin, 

And  feed  the  starving  poor. 

"The  sunken  boats  of  fishers, 
The  foraged  beeves  and  grain, 

The  spoil  of  flake  and  storehouse, 
The  good  ship  brings  again. 

"  And  so  to  Finland's  sorrow 
The  sweet  amend  is  made, 

As  if  the  healing  hand  of  Christ 
Upon  her  wounds  were  laid ! " 

Then  said  the  gray  old  Amtman, 
"  The  will  of  God  be  done ! 

The  battle  lost  by  England's  hate, 
By  England's  love  is  won! 

"  We  braved  the  iron  tempest 
That  thundered  on  our  shore  ; 

But  when  did  kindness  fail  to  find 
The  key  to  Finland's  door? 

"  No  more  from  Aland's  ramparts 
Shall  warning  signal  come, 

Nor  startled  Sweaborg  hear  again 
The  roll  of  midnight  drum. 

"  Beside  our  fierce  Black  Eagle 
The  Dove  of  Peace  shall  rest ; 

And  in  the  mouths  of  cannon 
The  sea-bird  make  her  nest. 

"  For  Finland,  looking  seaward, 
No  coming  foe  shall  scan ; 

And  the  holy  bells  of  Abo 

Shall  ring,  '  Good-will  to  man ! ' 


270 


LATER   POEMS. 


"  Then  row  thy  boat,  O  fisher ! 

In  peace  on  lake  and  bay ; 
And    thou,    young    maiden,     dance 
again 

Around  the  poles  of  May ! 

"  Sit  down,  old  men,  together, 

Old  wives,  in  quiet  spin  ; 
Henceforth  the  Anglo-Saxon 

Is  the  brother  of  the  Finn!  " 


A   LAY   OF   OLD   TIME. 

WRITTEN     FOR     THE    ESSEX    COUNTY 
AGRICULTURAL    FAIR. 

ONE  morning  of  the  first  sad  Fall, 

Poor  Adam  and  his  bride 
Sat  in  the  shade  of  Eden's  wall  — 

But  on  the  outer  side. 

She,  blushing  in  her  fig-leaf  suit 
For  the  chaste  garb  of  old  ; 

He,  sighing  o'er  his  bitter  fruit 
For  Eden's  drupes  of  gold. 

Behind  them,  smiling  in  the  morn, 

Their  forfeit  garden  lay, 
Before    them,   wild    with    rock    and 
thorn, 

The  desert  stretched  away. 

They    heard    the    air    above    them 
fanned, 

A  light  step  on  the  sward, 
And  lo !  they  saw  before  them  stand 

The  angel  of  the  Lord ! 

"Arise,"  he  said,  "why  look  behind, 

When  hope  is  all  before, 
And  patient  hand  and  willing  mind, 

Your  loss  may  yet  restore  ? 

"  I    leave    with   you   a    spell   whose 
power 

Can  make  the  desert  glad, 
And  call  around  you  fruit  and  flower 

As  fair  as  Eden  had. 


"  I  clothe  your  hands  with  power  to 
lift 

The  curse  from  off  your  soil ; 
Your  very  doom  shall  seem  a  gift, 

Your  loss  a  gain  through  Toil. 

"  Go,  cheerful  as  yon  humming-bees, 

To  labor  as  to  play." 
White  glimmering  over  Eden's  trees 

The  angel  passed  away. 

The  pilgrims  of  the  world  went  forth 

Obedient  to  the  word, 
And   found  where'er  they  tilled   the 
earth 

A  garden  of  the  Lord ! 

The  thorn-tree  cast  its  evil  fruit 
And  blushed  with  plum  and  pear, 

And  seeded  grass  and  trodden  root 
Grew  sweet  beneath  their  care. 

We  share  our  primal  parents1  fate, 

And  in  our  turn  and  clay, 
Look  back  on  Eden's  sworded  gate 

As  sad  and  lost  as  they. 

But  still  for  us  his  native  skies 

The  pitying  Angel  leaves, 
And  leads  through  Toil  to  Paradise 

New  Adams  and  new  Eves ! 


WHAT   OF   THE    DAY? 

A  SOUND  of  tumult  troubles  all   the 

air, 
Like  the  low  thunders  of  a  sultry 

sky 

Far-rolling  ere  the  downright   light- 
nings glare ; 
The  hills  blaze  red  with  warnings  ; 

foes  draw  nigh, 
Treading  the  dark  with  challenge 

and  reply. 
Behold  the  burden  of  the  prophet's 

vision, — 

The  gathering  hosts,  —  the  Valley  of 
Decision, 


THE   FIRST   FLOWERS. 


271 


Dusk    with    the   wings    of   eagles 

wheeling  o'er. 
Day  of  the  Lord,  of  darkness  and  not 

light! 

It  breaks  in  thunder  and  the  whirl- 
wind's roar! 
Even  so,  Father!     Let    thy  will    be 

done,  — 
Turn  and  o'erturn,  end  what  thou 

hast  begun 

In  judgment  or  in  mercy :  as  for  me, 
If  but  the  least  and  frailest,  let  me  be 
Ever  more  numbered  with  the  truly  free 
Who  find  thy  service  perfect  liberty! 
I  fain  would  thank  Thee  that  my  mor- 
tal life 
Has     reached     the    hour     (albeit 

through  care  and  pain) 
When  Good  and   Evil,  as   for  final 

strife, 

Close  dim  and  vast  on  Armaged- 
don's plain ; 
And   Michael    and    his   angels  once 

again 
Drive  howling  back  the  Spirits  of 

the  Night. 
O    for  the   faith  to  read   the   signs 

aright 
And,  from   the  angle  of  thy  perfect 

sight, 
See  Truth's  white  banner  floating 

on  before ; 
And   the  Good   Cause,  despite   of 

venal  friends, 
And     base    expedients,    move    to 

noble  ends ; 
See  Peace  with  Freedom  make  to 

Time  amends, 
And,  through   its  cloud  of  dust,  the 

threshing-floor, 
Flailed    by    thy    thunder,    heaped 

with  chaffless  grain ! 
1857-  

THE   FIRST   FLOWERS. 

FOR  ages  on  our  river  borders, 

These  tassels  in  their  tawny  bloom, 

And  willowy  studs  of  downy  silver, 
Have  prophesied  of  Spring  to  come. 


For  ages  have  the  unbound  waters 
Smiled  on  them  from  their  pebbly 

hem, 

And  the  clear  carol  of  the  robin 
And   song   of  bluebird  welcomed 
them. 

But  never  yet  from  smiling  river, 
Or  song  of  early  bird,  have  they 

Been  greeted  with  a  gladder  welcome 
Than  whispers  from  my  heart  to- 
day 

They  break  the  spell  of  cold  and 
darkness, 

The  weary  watch  of  sleepless  pain ; 
And  from  my  heart,  as  from  the  river, 

The  ice  of  winter  melts  again. 

Thanks,  Mary!  for  this  wild-wood 
token 

Of  Freya's  footsteps  drawing  near  ; 
Almost,  as  in  the  rune  of  Asgard, 

The  growing  of  the  grass  1  hear. 

It  is  as  if  the  pine-trees  called  me 
From  ceiled  room  and  silent  books, 

To  see  the  dance  of  woodland  shad- 
ows, 
And  hear  the  song  of  April  brooks ! 

As  in  the  old  Teutonic  ballad 

Live    singing   bird   and    flowering 
tree, 

Together  live  in  bloom  and  music, 
I  blend  in  song  thy  flowers  and  thee. 

Earth's  rocky  tablets  bear  forever 
The  dint  of  rain  and  small  bird's 
track : 

Who  knows  but  that  my  idle  verses 
May  leave  some  trace  by  Merrimack ! 

The  bird  that  trod  the  mellow  layers 
Of  the  young  earth    is   sought  in 

vain ; 

The  cloud  is  gone  that  wove  the  sand- 
stone, 

From  God's  design,  with  threads  of 
rain ! 


272 


LATER   POEMS. 


So,  when  this  fluid  age  we  live  in 
Shall    stiffen    round    my    careless 

rhyme, 
Who  made  the  vagrant   tracks   may 

puzzle 
The  savans  of  the  coming  time  : 

And,  following  out  their  dim  sugges- 
tions, 

Some  idly-curious  hand  may  draw 
My  doubtful  portraiture,  as  Cuvier 
Drew  fish  and  bird  from  fin  and 
claw. 

And  maidens  in  the  far-off  twilights, 
Singing  my  words  to  breeze  and 
stream, 

Shall  wonder  if  the  old-time  Mary 
Were  real,  or  the  rhymer's  dream ! 

1st  $d  mo.,  1857. 


MY  NAMESAKE. 

You  scarcely  need  my  tardy  thanks, 
Who,    self-rewarded,     nurse     and 

tend  — 
A  green   leaf    on    your  own   Green 

Banks  — 
The  memory  of  your  friend. 

For    me,    no    wreath,    bloom-woven, 

hides 
The   sobered   brow  and  lessening 

hair: 

For  aught  I  know,  the  myrtled  sides 
Of  Helicon  are  bare. 

Their  scallop-shells  so  many  bring 
The  fabled  founts  of  song  to  try, 

They  Ve   drained,  for  aught  I  know, 

the  spring 
Of  Aganippe  dry. 

Ah   well!  —  The   wreath    the   Muses 
braid 

Proves  often  Folly's  cap  and  bell ; 
Methinks,  my  ample  beaver's  shade 

May  serve  my  turn  as  well. 


Let  Love's  and  Friendship's   tender 
debt 

Be  paid  by  those  I  love  in  life. 
Why  should  the  unborn  critic  whet 

For  me  his  scalping-knife  ? 

Why  should  the   stranger  peer   and 
pry 

One's  vacant  house  of  life  about, 
And  drag  for  curious  ear  and  eye 

His  faults  and  follies  out?  — 

Why  stuff,  for  fools  to  gaze  upon, 
With  chaff  of  words,  the  garb  he 
wore, 

As  corn-husks  when  the  ear  is  gone 
Are  rustled  all  the  more? 

Let  kindly  Silence  close  again, 
The  picture  vanish  from  the  eye, 

And  on  the  dim  and  misty  main 
Let  the  small  ripple  die. 

Yet  not  the  less  I  own  your  claim 
To  grateful  thanks,  dear  friends  of 
mine. 

Hang,  if  it  please  you  so,  my  name 
Upon  your  household  line. 

Let  Fame  from  brazen  lips  blow  wide 
Her  chosen  names,  I  envy  none : 

A  mother's  love,  a  father's  pride, 
Shall  keep  alive  my  own! 

Still  shall  that  name  as  now  recall 
The  young  leaf  wet  with  morning 
dew, 

The  glory  where  the  sunbeams  fall 
The  breezy  woodlands  through. 

That  name  shall  be  a  household  word, 
A  spell  to  waken  smile  or  sigh ; 

In  many  an  evening  prayer  be  heard 
And  cradle  lullaby. 

And  thou,  dear  child,  in  riper  days 
When  asked  the  reason  of  thy  name, 

Shalt  answer  :    "  One  't  were  vain  to 

praise 
Or  censure  bore  the  same. 


MY  NAMESAKE. 


273 


"  Some  blamed    him,  some   believed 

him  good,  — 
The  truth  lay  doubtless  'twixt  the 

two, — 

He  reconciled  as  best  he  could 
Old  faith  and  fancies  new. 

"  In  him  the  grave  and  playful  mixed, 
And  wisdom  held  with  folly  truce, 

And  Nature  compromised  betwixt 
Good  fellow  and  recluse. 

"  He  loved  his   friends,  forgave   his 

foes ; 
And,  if  his  words  were   harsh    at 

times, 

He  spared  his  fellow-men,  —  his  blows 
Fell  only  on  their  crimes. 

"  He  loved  the  good   and  wise,  but 
found 

His  human  heart  to  all  akin 
Who  met  him  on  the  common  ground 

Of  suffering  and  of  sin. 

"  Whate'er  his  neighbors  might  endure 
Of  pain  or  grief  his  own  became  ; 

For  all  the  ills  he  could  not  cure 
He  held  himself  to  blame. 

"  His  good  was  mainly  an  intent, 
His  evil  not  of  forethought  done  ; 

The  work  he  wrought  was  rarely  meant 
Or  finished  as  begun. 

"  111  served  his  tides  of  feeling  strong 
To  turn  the  common  mills  of  use  ; 

And,  over  restless  wings  of  song, 
His  birthright  garb  hung  loose! 

"  His  eye  was  beauty's  powerless  slave. 
And  his  the  ear  which  discord 
pains  : 

Few  guessed  beneath  his  aspect  grave 
What  passions  strove  in  chains. 

"  He  had  his  share  of  care  and  pain, 
No  holiday  was  life  to  him  ; 

Still  in  the  heirloom  cup  we  drain 
The  bitter  drop  will  swim. 


"Yet  Heaven  was  kind,  and  here  a 

bird 
And   there  a  flower  beguiled   his 

way; 

And,  cool,  in  summer  noons,  he  heard 
The  fountains  plash  and  play. 

"  On  all  his  sad  or  restless  moods 
The  patient  peace  of  Nature  stole  ; 

The  quiet  of  the  fields  and  woods 
Sank  deep  into  his  soul. 

"  He  worshipped  as  his  fathers  did, 
And    kept    the    faith    of    childish 
days, 

And,  howsoe'er  he  strayed  or  slid, 
He  loved  the  good  old  ways. 

"  The  simple  tastes,  the  kindly  traits, 
The  tranquil  air,  and  gentle  speech, 

The  silence  of  the  soul  that  waits 
For  more  than  man  to  teach. 

"  The  cant  of  party,  school,  and  sect, 
Provoked  at  times  his  honest  scorn, 

And  Folly,  in  its  gray  respect, 
He  tossed  on  satire's  horn. 

"  But  still  his  heart  was  full  of  awe 
And  reverence  for  all  sacred  things  ; 

And,  brooding  over  form  and  law, 
He  saw  the  Spirit's  wings! 

"  Life's  mystery  wrapt  him  like  a 
cloud ; 

He  heard  far  voices  mock  his  own, 
The  sweep  of  wings  unseen,  the  loud, 

Long  roll  of  waves  unknown. 

"The  arrows  of  his  straining  sight 
Fell  quenched  in  darkness ;  priest 
and  sage, 

Like  lost  guides  calling  left  and  right, 
Perplexed  his  doubtful  age. 

"Like  childhood,  listening  for  the 
sound 

Of  its  dropped  pebbles  in  the  well, 
All  vainly  down  the  dark  profound 

His  brief-lined  plummet  fell. 


274 


LATER   POEMS. 


"  So,   scattering  flowers   with    pious 

pains 

On  old  beliefs,  of  later  creeds, 
Which    claimed  a  place  in   Truth's 

domains, 
He  asked  the  title-deeds. 

"  He  saw  the  old-time's  groves  and 
shrines 

In  the  long  distance  fair  and  dim  ; 
And  heard,  like  sound  of  far-off  pines, 

The  century-mellowed  hymn! 

"He  dared   not  mock   the    Dervish 

whirl, 
The   Brahmin's    rite,   the    Lama's 

spell ; 
God    knew    the    heart :     Devotion's 

pearl 
Might  sanctify  the  shell. 

"  While  others  trod  the  altar  stairs 
He  faltered  like  the  publican ; 

And,  while  they  praised  as  saints,  his 

prayers 
Were  those  of  sinful  man. 

"  For,  awed  by  Sinai's  Mount  of  Law, 
The  trembling  faith  alone  sufficed, 

That,  through  its  cloud  and  flame,  he 

saw 
The  sweet,  sad  face  of  Christ!  — 

"And    listening,    with   his    forehead 

bowed, 
Heard  the  Divine  compassion  fill 


The  pauses  of  the  trump  and  cloud 
With  whispers  small  and  still. 

"The  words  he  spake,  the  thoughts 
he  penned, 

Are  mortal  as  his  hand  and  brain, 
But,  if  they  served  the  Master's  end, 

He  has  not  lived  in  vain !" 

Heaven  make  thee  better  than  thy 

name, 
Child  of  my  friends !  —  For  thee  I 

crave 

What  riches  never  bought,  nor  fame 
To  mortal  longing  gave. 

I  pray  the  prayer  of  Plato  old  : 
God  make  thee  beautiful  within, 

And  let  thine  eyes  the  good  behold  • 
In  everything  save  sin! 

Imagination  held  in  check 

To  serve  not  rule  thy  poise'd  mind ; 
Thy  Reason,  at  the  frown  or  beck 

Of  Conscience,  loose  or  bind. 

No  dreamer  thou,  but  real  all,  — 
Strong  manhood  crowning  vigorous 
youth ; 

Life  made  by  duty  epical 

And  rhythmic  with  the  truth. 

So  shall  that  life  the  fruitage  yield 
Which  trees  of  healing  only  give, 

And  green-leafed  in  the  Eternal  field 
Of  God,  forever  live! 


THE   WITCH'S   DAUGHTER. 


275 


HOME   BALLADS,    1860. 

I  CALL  the  old  time  back  :  I  bring  these  lays 
To  thee,  in  memory  of  the  summer  days 
When,  by  our  native  streams  and  forest  ways, 

We  dreamed  them  over ;  while  the  rivulets  made 
Songs  of  their  own,  and  the  great  pine-trees  laid 
On  warm  noon-lights  the  masses  of  their  shade. 

And  she  was  with  us,  living  o'er  again 

Her  life  in  ours,  despite  of  years  and  pain,  — 

The  autumn's  brightness  after  latter  rain. 

Beautiful  in  her  holy  peace  as  one 

Who  stands,  at  evening,  when  the  work  is  done, 

Glorified  in  the  setting  of  the  sun ! 

Her  memory  makes  our  common  landscape  seem 
Fairer  than  any  of  which  painters  dream, 
Lights  the  brown  hills  and  sings  in  every  stream ; 

For  she  whose  speech  was  always  truth's  pure  gold 
Heard,  not  unpleased,  its  simple  legends  told, 
And  loved  with  us  the  beautiful  and  old. 


THE   WITCH'S   DAUGHTER. 

IT  was  the  pleasant  harvest  time, 
When  cellar-bins  are  closely  stowed, 
And  garrets  bend  beneath  their  load, 

And  the  old  swallow-haunted  barns  — 
Brown-gabled,    long,    and   full    of 

seams 
Through  which  the  moted  sunlight 

streams, 

And  winds  blow  freshly  in,  to  shake 
The   red  plumes    of    the    roosted 

cocks, 
And  the  loose  hay-mow's  scented 

locks  — 

Are    filled    with    summer's     ripened 
stores, 


Its  odorous  grass  and  barley  sheaves, 
From  their   low   scaffolds  to   their 


On  Esek  Harden's  oaken  floor, 

With   many   an  autumn  threshing 

worn, 

Lay  the  heaped  ears  of  unhusked 
corn. 

And   thither   came   young   men  and 

maids, 

Beneath  a  moon  that,  large  and  low, 
Lit  that  sweet  eve  of  long  ago. 

They  took    their    places ;   some    by 

chance, 

And  others  by  a  merry  voice 
Or  sweet    smile    guicled    to   their 
choice. 


276 


HOME   BALLADS. 


How  pleasantly  the  rising  moon, 
Between  the  shadows  of  the  mows, 
Looked  on  them  through  the  great 
elm-boughs !  — 

On  sturdy  boyhood  sun-embrowned, 
On  girlhood  with  its  solid  curves 
Of  healthful  strength  and  painless 
nerves ! 

And  jests  went  round,  and  laughs  that 

made 
The  house-dog  answer  with  his 

howl. 
And  kept  astir  the  barn-yard  fowl ; 

And  quaint  old   songs    their   fathers 

sung, 
In  Derby  dales  and  Yorkshire 

moors, 
Ere    Norman  William   trod    their 

shores ; 

And  tales,  whose  merry  license  shook 
The  fat  sides  of  the  Saxon  thane, 
Forgetful  of  the  hovering  Dane! 

But  still  the  sweetest  voice  was  mute 
That  river-valley  ever  heard 
From  lip  of  maid  or  throat  of  bird  ; 

For  Mabel  Martin  sat  apart. 

And  let  the  hay-mow's  shadow  fall 
Upon  the  loveliest  face  of  all. 

She  sat  apart,  as  one  forbid, 
Who  knew  that  none  would  con- 
descend 

To   own   the  Witch-wife's  child  a 
friend. 

The  seasons  scarce   had  gone   their 

round, 
Since  curious  thousands  thronged 

to  see 
Her  mother  on  the  gallows-tree  ; 

And  mocked  the  palsied  limbs  of  age, 
That  faltered  on  the  fatal  stairs, 


And   wan    lip    trembling   with    its 
prayers ! 

Few  questioned  of  the  sorrowing  child, 
Or,  when  they  saw  the  mother  die, 
Dreamed  of  the  daughter's  agony. 

They  went  up  to  their  homes  that  day, 
As  men  and  Christians  justified : 
God  willed  it,  and  the  wretch  had 
died! 

Dear  God  and  Father  of  us  all, 
Forgive  our  faith  in  cruel  lies,  — 
Forgive  the  blindness  that  denies! 

Forgive  thy  creature  when  he  takes, 
For  the  all-perfect  love  thou  art, 
Some  grim  creation  of  his  heart. 

Cast  down  our  idols,  overturn 
Our  bloody  altars  ;  let  us  see 
Thyself  in  thy  humanity! 

Poor  Mabel  from  her  mother's  grave 
Crept  to  her  desolate  hearth-stone, 
And  wrestled  with  her  fate  alone ; 

With  love,  and  anger,  and  despair, 
The  phantoms  of  disordered  sense, 
The  awful  doubts  of  Providence! 

The  school-boys  jeered  her  as    they 

passed, 
And.  when  she  sought  the  house  of 

prayer, 
Her  mother's  curse  pursued  her 

there. 

And   still    o'er   many  a   neighboring 

door 
She   saw   the    horseshoe's    curved 

charm, 

To    guard    against    her    mother's 
harm  ;  — 

That  mother,  poor,  and  sick,  and  lame, 
Who  daily,  by  the  old  arm-chair, 
Folded     her    withered     hands     in 
prayer ;  — 


THE   WITCH'S   DAUGHTER. 


277 


Who  turned,  in  Salem's  dreary  jail, 
Her  worn  old  Bible  o'er  and  o'er, 
When  her  dim  eyes  could  read  no 
more ! 

Sore  tried  and  pained,  the  poor  girl 

kept 
Her  faith,  and  trusted  that  her 

way, 
So  dark,  would  somewhere  meet  the 

day. 

And  still  her  weary  wheel  went  round 
Day  after  day,  with  no  relief; 
Small   leisure    have    the   poor   for 
grief. 

So  in  the  shadow  Mabel  sits ; 

Untouched  by  mirth  she  sees  and 

hears, 
Her  smile  is  sadder  than  her  tears. 

But  cruel  eyes  have  found  her  out, 
And  cruel  lips  repeat  her  name, 
And    taunt  her  with  her   mother's 
shame. 

She  answered  not  with  railing  words, 
But  drew*her  apron  o'er  her  face, 
And,  sobbing,  glided  from  the  place. 

And  only  pausing  at  the  door, 

Her  sad  eyes  met  the  troubled  gaze 
Of  one  who,  in  her  better  days, 

Had  been  her  warm  and  steady  friend, 
Ere   yet   her    mother's    doom   had 

made 
Even  Esek  Harden  half  afraid. 

He  felt  that  mute  appeal  of  tears, 
And,  starting,  with  an  angry  frown 
Hushed   all   the   wicked    murmurs 
down. 

"  Good  neighbors  mine,"   he  sternly 

said, 
"  This  passes  harmless  mirth  or 

jest ; 
I  brook  no  insult  to  my  guest. 


"  She  is  indeed  her  mother's  child ; 
But  God's  sweet  pity  ministers 
Unto  no  whiter  soul  than  hers. 

"  Let  Goody  Martin  rest  in  peace  ; 
I  never  knew  her  harm  a  fly, 
And  witch  or  not,  God  knows,  — 
not  I. 

"  I  know  who  swore  her  life  away  ; 
And,   as  God   lives,  I  'd  not   con- 
demn 
An  Indian  dog  on  word  of  them." 

The  broadest  lands  in  all  the  town, 
The   skill    to  guide,  the  power   to 

awe, 
Were  Harden's  ;  and  his  word  was 

law. . 

None  dared  withstand  him  to  his  face, 
But  one  sly  maiden  spake  aside  : 
"  The  little  witch  is  evil-eyed ! 

"  Her  mother  only  killed  a  cow, 
Or  witched  a  churn  or  dairy-pan  ; 
But  she,    forsooth,    must  charm  a 

man !  " 

Poor  Mabel,  in  her  lonely  home, 
Sat  by  the  window's  narrow  pane, 
White   in   the     moonlight's    silver 
rain. 

The  river,  on  its  pebbled  rim, 

Made    music     such    as     childhood 

knew ; 

The  door-yard  tree  was  whispered 
through 

By  voices  such  as  childhood's  ear 
Had    heard    in     moonlights    long 

ago; 
And    through     the   willow-boughs 

below 

She  saw  the  rippled  waters  shine ; 
Beyond,    in   waves   of  shade    and 

light 
The  hills  rolled  off  into  the  night. 


278 


HOME   BALLADS. 


Sweet  sounds  and  pictures  mocking  so 
The  sadness  of  her  human  lot, 
She  saw  and  heard,  but  heeded  not. 

She   strove   to   drown    her  sense   of 

wrong, 

And,  in  her  old  and  simple  way, 
To  teach  her  bitter  heart  to  pray. 

Poor  child !  the  prayer,  begun  in  faith, 
Grew  to  a  low,  despairing  cry 
Of  utter  misery  :  "  Let  me  die ! 

"  Oh !  take  me  from  the  scornful  eyes 
And     hide     me   where    the    cruel 

speech 
And     mocking     finger     may     not 

reach ! 

"  I   dare    not   breathe    my   mother's 

name : 

A  daughter's  right  I  dare  not  crave 
To  weep  above  her  unblest  grave ! 

"  Let  me  not  live  until  my  heart. 
With  few  to  pity,  and  with  none 
To  love  me,  hardens  into  stone. 

"O  God!  have  mercy  on  thy  child, 
Whose  faith  in  thee  grows   weak 

and  small, 
And  take  me  ere  I  lose  it  all ! " 

A  shadow  on  the  moonlight  fell, 
And  murmuring  wind  and  wave  be- 
came 

A   voice   whose   burden   was     her 
name. 

Had  then  God  heard  her?     Had  he 

sent 
His   angel   down?      In    flesh   and 

blood, 
Before  her  Esek  Harden  stood! 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  her  arm  : 
"  Dear   Mabel,  this    no  more  shall 

be; 
Who  scoffs  at  you,  must  scoff  at 

me. 


"  You    know    rough    Esek     Harden 

well ; 

And  if  he  seems  no  suitor  gay, 
And   if   his  hair  is   touched  with 

gray, 

"The  maiden  grown  shall  never  find 
His  heart  less  warm  than  when  she 

smiled, 
Upon  his  knees,  a  little  child !  " 

Her  tears  of  grief  were  tears  of  joy? 
As,  folded  in  his  strong  embrace, 
She  looked  in  Esek  Harden's  face. 

"  O  truest  friend  of  all  !  "  she  said, 
"  God  bless    you   for   your   kindly 

thought, 
And  make  me  worthy  of  my  lot!  " 

He  led  her  through  his  dewy  fields, 
To  where  the  swinging  lanterns 

glowed, 

And  through  the  doors  the  buskers 
showed. 

"  Good  friends  and  neighbors !  "  Esek 

said, 

"  I  'in  weary  of  this  lonely  life  ; 
In  Mabel  see  my  chosen  wife! 

"  She  greets  you  kindly,  one  and  all ; 
The  past  is  past,  and  all  offence 
Falls  harmless  from  her  innocence. 

"  Henceforth   she     stands    no    more 

alone ; 
You  know  what  Esek  Harden 

is  :  — 
He  brooks  no  wrong  to  him  or  his." 

Now  let  the  merriest  tales  be  told, 
And  let  the  sweetest  songs  be  sung 
That    ever     made   the   old     heart 
young! 

For  now  the  lost  has  found  a  home ; 
And  a  lone  hearth    shall  brighter 

burn, 
As  all  the  household  joys  return ! 


THE   GARRISON   OF  CAPE  ANN. 


279 


O,  pleasantly  the  harvest-moon, 
Between  the  shadow  of  the  mows, 
Looked  on  them  through  the  great 
elm-boughs ! 


On  Mabel's  curls  of  golden  hair, 
On  Esek's  shaggy  strength  it  fell ; 
And   the   wind  whispered,  "  It   is 
well ! " 


THE  GARRISON  OF  CAPE  ANN. 

FROM  the  hills  of  home  forth  looking,  far  beneath  the  tent-like  span 
Of  the  sky,  I  see  the  white  gleam  of  the  headland  of  Cape  Ann. 
Well  I  know  its  coves  and  beaches  to  the  ebb-tide  glimmering  down, 
And  the  white-walled  hamlet  children  of  its  ancient  fishing-town. 

Long  has  passed  the  summer  morning,  and  its  memory  waxes  old, 
When  along  yon  breezy  headlands  with  a  pleasant  friend  I  strolled. 
Ah !  the  autumn  sun  is  shining,  and  the  ocean  wind  blows  cool, 
And  the  golden-rod  and  aster  bloom  around  thy  grave,  Rantoul! 

With  the  memory  of  that  morning  by  the  summer  sea  I  blend 

A  wild  and  wondrous  story,  by  the  younger  Mather  penned, 

In  that  quaint  Magnalia  Christi,  with  all  strange  and  marvellous  things, 

Heaped  up  huge  and  undigested,  like  the  chaos  Ovid  sings. 

Dear  to  me  these  far,  faint  glimpses  of  the  dual  life  of  old, 

Inward,  grand  with  awe  and  reverence  ;  outward,  mean  and  coarse  and  cold  ; 

Gleams  of  mystic  beauty  playing  over  dull  and  vulgar  clay, 

Golden  threads  of  romance  weaving  in  a  web  of  hodden  gray. 

The  great  eventful  Present  hides  the  Past ;  but  through  the  din 
Of  its  loud  life  hints  and  echoes  from  the  life  behind  steal  in ; 
And  the  lore  of  home  and  fireside,  and  the  legendary  rhyme, 
Make  the  task  of  duty  lighter  which  the  true  man  owes  his  time. 

So,  with  something  of  the  feeling  which  the  Covenanter  knew, 

When  with  pious  chisel  wandering  Scotland's  moorland  graveyards  through, 

From  the  graves  of  old  traditions  I  part  the  blackberry-vines, 

Wipe  the  moss  from  off  the  headstones,  and  retouch  the  faded  lines. 


Where  the  sea-waves  back  and  forward,  hoarse  with  rolling  pebbles,  ran, 
The  garrison-house  stood  watching  on  the  gray  rocks  of  Cape  Ann  ; 
On  its  windy  site  uplifting  gabled  roof  and  palisade, 
And  rough  walls  of  unhewn  timber  with  the  moonlight  overlaid. 

On  his  slow  round  walked  the  sentry,  south  and  eastward  looking  forth 
O'er  a  rude  and  broken  coast-line,  white  with  breakers  stretching  north,  — 
Wood  and  rock  and  gleaming  sand-drift,  jagged  capes,  with  bush  and  tree, 
Leaning  inland  from  the  smiting  of  the  wild  and  gusty  sea. 


280  HOME   BALLADS. 


Before  the  deep-mouthed  chimney,  dimly  lit  by  dying  brands, 
Twenty  soldiers  sat  and  waited,  with  their  muskets  in  their  hands  ; 
On  the  rough-hewn  oaken  table  the  venison  haunch  was  shared, 
And  the  pewter  tankard  circled  slowly  round  from  beard  to  beard. 

Long  they  sat  and  talked  together,  —  talked  of  wizards  Satan-sold ;  . 
Of  all  ghostly  sights  and  noises,  —signs  and  wonders  manifold; 
Of  the  spectre-ship  of  Salem,  with  the  dead  men  in  her  shrouds, 
Sailing  sheer  above  the  water,  in  the  loom  of  morning  clouds ; 

Of  the  marvellous  valley  hidden  in  the  depths  of  Gloucester  woods, 
Full  of  plants  that  love  the  summer,  —  blooms  of  warmer  latitudes  ; 
Where  the  Arctic  birch  is  braided  by  the  tropic's  flowery  vines, 
And  the  white  magnolia-blossoms  star  the  twilight  of  the  pines ! 

But  their  voices  sank  yet  lower,  sank  to  husky  tones  of  fear, 
As  they  spake  of  present  tokens  of  the  powers  of  evil  near ; 
Of  a  spectral  host,  defying  stroke  of  steel  and  aim  of  gun; 
Never  yet  was  ball  to  slay  them  in  the  mould  of  mortals  run! 

Thrice,  with  plumes  and  flowing  scalp-locks,  from  the  midnight  wood  they 

came,  — 

Thrice  around  the  block-house  marching,  met,  unharmed,  its  volleyed  flame; 
Then,  with  mocking  laugh  and  gesture,  sunk  in  earth  or  lost  in  air, 
All  the  ghostly  wonder  vanished,  and  the  moonlit  sands  lay  bare. 

Midnight  came ;  from  out  the  forest  moved  a  dusky  mass  that  soon 
Grew  to  warriors,  plumed  and  painted,  grimly  marching  in  the  moon. 
"Ghosts  or  witches,"  said  the  captain,  "thus  I  foil  the  Evil  One!" 
And  he  rammed  a  silver  button,  from  his  doublet,  down  his  gun. 

Once  again  the  spectral  horror  moved  the  guarded  wall  about ; 
Once  again  the  levelled  muskets  through  the  palisades  flashed  out, 
With -that  deadly  aim  the  squirrel  on  his  tree-top  might  not  shun, 
Nor  the  beach-bird  seaward  flying  with  his  slant  wing  to  the  sun. 

Like  the  idle  rain  of  summer  sped  the  harmless  shower  of  lead. 
With  a  laugh  of  fierce  derision,  once  again  the  phantoms  fled ; 
Once  again,  without  a  shadow  on  the  sands  the  moonlight  lay, 
And  the  white  smoke  curling  through  it  drifted  slowly  down  the  bay ! 

"  God  preserve  us!  "  said  the  captain  ;  "  never  mortal  foes  were  there ; 
They  have  vanished  with  their  leader,  Prince  and  Power  of  the  air! 
Lay  aside  your  useless  weapons ;   skill  and  prowess  naught  avail ; 
They  who  do  the  Devil's  service  wear  their  master's  coat  of  mail ! " 

So  the  night  grew  near  to  cock-crow,  when  again  a  warning  call 
Roused  the  score  of  weary  soldiers  watching  round  the  dusky  hall : 
And  they  looked  to  flint  and  priming,  and  they  longed  for  break  of  day ; 
But  the  captain  closed  his  Bible :  "  Let  us  cease  from  man,  and  pray ! " 


THE   PROPHECY   OF   SAMUEL   SEWALL. 


281 


To  the  men  who  went  before  us,  all  the  unseen  powers  seemed  near, 
And  their  steadfast  strength  of  courage  struck  its  roots  in  holy  fear. 
Every  hand  forsook  the  musket,  every  head  was  bowed  and  bare, 
Every  stout  knee  pressed  the  flag-stones,  as  the  captain  led  in  prayer. 

Ceased  thereat  the  mystic  marching  of  the  spectres  round  the  wall, 
But  a  sound  abhorred,  unearthly,  smote  the  ears  and  hearts  of  all,  — 
Howls  of  rage  and  shrieks  of  anguish !     Never  after  mortal  man 
Saw  the  ghostly  leaguers  marching  round  the  block-house  of  Cape  Ann. 

So  to  us  who  walk  in  summer  through  the  cool  and  sea-blown  town, 
From  the  childhood  of  its  people  comes  the  solemn  legend  down. 
Not  in  vain  the  ancient  fiction,  in  whose  moral  lives  the  youth 
And  the  fitness  and  the  freshness  of  an  undecaying  truth. 

Soon  or  late  to  all  our  dwellings  come  the  spectres  of  the  mind, 
Doubts  and  fears  and  dread  forebodings,  in  the  darkness  undefined ; 
Round  us  throng  the  grim  projections  of  the  heart  and  of  the  brain, 
And  our  pride  of  strength  is  weakness,  and  the  cunning  hand  is  vain. 

In  the  dark  we  cry  like  children ;  and  no  answer  from  on  high 
Breaks  the  crystal  spheres  of  silence,  and  no  white  wings  downward  fly; 
But  the  heavenly  help  we  pray  for  comes  to  faith,  and  not  to  sight, 
And  our  prayers  themselves  drive  backward  all  the  spirits  of  the  night! 


THE   PROPHECY   OF    SAMUEL 

SEWALL. 

1697. 

UP  and  down  the  village  streets 
Strange    are    the     forms    my    fancy 

meets, 
For  the  thoughts  and  things  of  to-day 

are  hid, 

And  through  the  veil  of  a  closed  lid 
The  ancient  worthies  I  see  again  : 
I  hear  the  tap  of  the  elder's  cane, 
And  his  awful  periwig  I  see, 
And  the  silver  buckles  of  shoe  and 

knee. 

Stately  and  slow,  with  thoughtful  air, 
His  black   cap   hiding  his  whitened 

hair, 

Walks  the  Judge  of  the  great  Assize, 
Samuel  Sewall  the  good  and  wise. 
His     face    with     lines    of    firmness 

wrought, 
He  wears  the  look  of  a  man  unbought, 


Who  swears  to  his  hurt  and  changes 

not ; 

Yet,  touched  and  softened  nevertheless 
With  the  grace  of  Christian  gentleness, 
The  face  that  a  child  would  climb  to 

kiss! 

True  and  tender  and  brave  and  just, 
That  man  might  honor  and  woman 

trust. 

Touching  and  sad,  a  tale  is  told, 

Like  a  penitent  hymn  of  the  Psalmist 
old, 

Of  the  fast  which  the  good  man  life- 
long kept 

With  a  haunting  sorrow  that  never 
slept, 

As  the  circling  year  brought  round 
the  time 

Of  an  error  that  left  the  sting  of 
crime, 

When  he  sat  on  the  bench  of  the 
witchcraft  courts, 


282 


HOME  BALLADS. 


With  the  laws  of  Moses  and  Kale's 

Reports, 
And  spake,  in  the  name  of  both,  the 

word 
That  gave  the  witch's   neck   to   the 

cord, 
And    piled    the   oaken    planks    that 

pressed 
The   feeble   life   from   the  warlock's 

breast ! 

All  the  day  long,  from  dawn  to  dawn, 
His    door  was    bolted,    his    curtain 

drawn ; 

No  foot  on  his  silent  threshold  trod, 
No  eye  looked  on  him  save  that  of 

God, 
As  he  baffled  the  ghosts  of  the  dead 

with  charms 
Of  penitent   tears,  and  prayers,  and 

psalms, 
And,  with    precious  proofs  from  the 

sacred  word 
Of  the  boundless  pity  and  love  of  the 

Lord, 

His  faith  confirmed  and  his  trust  re- 
newed 
That  the  sin  of  his  ignorance,  sorely 

rued, 
Might  be  washed  away  in  the  mingled 

flood 
Of  his   human   sorrow   and  Christ's 

dear  blood ! 

Green  forever  the  memory  be 
Of  the  Judge  of  the  old  Theocracy, 
Whom  even  his  errors  glorified, 
Like  a  far-seen,  sunlit  mountain-side 
By  the  cloudy  shadows  which  o'er  it 

glide! 

Honor  and  praise  to  the  Puritan 
Who  the  halting  step  of  his  age  out- 
ran, 

And,  seeing  the  infinite  worth  of  man 
In  the  priceless  gift  the  Father  gave, 
In  the  infinite  love  that    stooped  to 

save, 

Dared  not  brand  his  brother  a  slave! 
"Who    doth    such    wrong,"    he    was 

wont  to  say, 
In  his  own  quaint,  picture-loving  way, 


"  Flings  up  to  Heaven  a  hand-grenade 
Which  God  shall  cast  down  upon  his 
head!" 

Widely  as  heaven  and  hell,  contrast 
That  brave  old  jurist  of  the  past 
And  the  cunning  trickster  and  knave 

of  courts 

Who  the  holy  features  of  Truth  dis- 
torts, — 

Ruling  as  right  the  will  of  the  strong, 
Poverty,  crime,  and  weakness  wrong ; 
Wide-eared  to  power,  to  the  wronged 

and  weak 

Deaf  as  Egypt's  gods  of  leek ; 
Scoffing  aside  at  party's  nod 
Order  of  nature  and  law  of  God  ; 
For  whose   dabbled   ermine   respect 

were  waste, 

Reverence  folly,  and  awe  misplaced ; 
Justice  of  whom  't  were  vain  to  seek 
As  from  Koordish  robber  or  Syrian 

Sheik! 
O,  leave  the  wretch  to  his  bribes  and 

sins ; 
Let  him  rot  in  the  web  of  lies   he 

spins ! 

To  the  saintly  soul  of  the  early  day, 
To  the  Christian  judge,   let  us  turn 

and  say : 
"  Praise   and   thanks   for  an    honest 

man!  — 
Glory  to  God  for  the  Puritan!" 

I  see,  far  southward,  this  quiet  day, 
The  hills  of  Newbury  rolling  away, 
With  the  many  tints  of  the   season 

ga7» 

Dreamily  blending  in  autumn  mist 
Crimson,  and  gold,  and  amethyst. 
Long    and    low,    with     dwarf    trees 

crowned, 
Plum      Island     lies,    like     a    whale 

aground, 

A  stone's  toss  over  the  narrow  sound. 
Inland,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  go, 
The  hills  curve  round  like  a  bended 

bow; 

A  silver  arrow  from  out  them  sprung, 
I  see  the  shine  of  the  Quasycung ; 


THE   PROPHECY   OF   SAMUEL   SEWALL. 


283 


And,  round  and  round,  over  valley  and 
hill, 

Old  roads  winding,  as  old  roads  will, 

Here  to  a  ferry,  and  there  to  a  mill ; 

And  glimpses  of  chimneys  and  gabled 
eaves, 

Through  green  elm  arches  and  maple 
leaves,  — 

Old  homesteads  sacred  to  all  that  can 

Gladden  or  sadden  the  heart  of 
man,  — 

Over  whose  thresholds  of  oak  and 
stone 

Life  and  Death  have  come  and  gone! 

There  pictured  tiles  in  the  fireplace 
show, 

Great  beams  sag  from  the  ceiling  low, 

The  dresser  glitters  with  polished 
wares, 

The  long  clock  ticks  on  the  foot-worn 
stairs, 

And  the  low,  broad  chimney  shows 
the  crack 

By  the  earthquake  made  a  century 
back. 

Up  from  their  midst  springs  the  vil- 
lage spire 

With  the  crest  of  its  cock  in  the  sun 
afire ; 

Beyond  are  orchards  and  planting 
lands, 

And  great  salt  marshes  and  glimmer- 
ing sands, 

And,  where  north  and  south  the  coast- 
lines run, 

The  blink  of  the  sea  in  breeze  and  sun ! 

I  see  it  all  like  a  chart  unrolled, 

Bat  my  thoughts  are  full  of  the  past 
and  old, 

I  hear  the  tales  of  my  boyhood  told ; 

And  the  shadows  and  shapes  of  early 
days 

Flit  dimly  by  in  the  veiling  haze, 

With  measured  movement  and  rhyth- 
mic chime 

Weaving  like  shuttles  my  web  of 
rhyme. 

I  think  of  the  old  man  wise  and 
good 


Who   once   on    yon    misty   hillsides 

stood, 

A  poet  who  never  measured  rhyme, 
seer   unknown   to    his    dull-eared 

time,) 
And,    propped    on   his    staff  of   age, 

looked  down, 
With  his  boyhood's  love,  on  his  native 

town, 
Where,  written,  as  if  on  its  hills  and 

plains, 

His  burden  of  prophecy  yet  remains, 
For  the  voices  of  wood,  and  wave,  and 

wind 
To  read  in   the   ear  of  the   musing 

mind :  — 

"  As  long  as  Plum  Island,  to  guard 

the  coast 
As    God   appointed,   shall    keep    its 

post; 
As  long  as  a  salmon  shall  haunt  the 

deep 

Of  Merrimack  River,  or  sturgeon  leap  ; 
As  long  as  pickerel  swift  and  slim, 
Or  red-backed  perch,  in  Crane  Pond 

swim  ; 

As  long  as  the  annual  sea-fowl  know 
Their  time  to  come  and  their  time  to 

As  long  as  cattle  shall  roam  at  will 

The  green,  grass  meadows  by  Turkey 
Hill; 

As  long  as  sheep  shall  look  from  the 
side 

Of  Oldtown  Hill  on  marishes  wide, 

And  Parker  River,  and  salt-sea  tide ; 

As  long  as  a  wandering  pigeon  shall 
search 

The  fields  below  from  his  white-oak 
perch, 

When  the  barley-harvest  is  ripe  and 
shorn, 

And  the  dry  husks  fall  from  the  stand- 
ing corn  ; 

As  long  as  Nature  shall  not  grow  old, 

Nor  drop  her  work  from  her  doting 
hold, 

And  her  care  for  the  Indian  corn  for- 
get, 


284 


HOME   BALLADS. 


And  the  yellow  rows  in  pairs  to  set;  — 
So  long  shall  Christians  here  be  born, 
Grow  up  and  ripen  as  God's  sweet 

corn !  — 
By  the  beak  of  bird,  by  the  breath  of 

frost 

Shall  never  a  holy  ear  be  lost, 
But,  husked  by  Death  in  the  Planter's 

sight, 
Be  sown  again  in  the  fields  of  light ! " 


The  Island  still  is  purple  with  plums, 

Up  the  river  the  salmon  comes, 

The  sturgeon  leaps,  and  the  wild-fowl 

feeds 
On     hillside     berries     and      marish 

seeds,  — 

All  the  beautiful  signs  remain, 
From  spring-time  sowing  to  autumn 

rain 

The, good  man's  vision  returns  again! 
And  let  us  hope,  as  well  we  can, 
That  the  Silent  Angel  who  garners 

man 
May  find  some  grain  as   of  old    he 

found 
In    the    human    cornfield    ripe    and 

sound, 
And  the  Lord  of  the  Harvest  deign 

to  own 
The   precious   seed    by    the    fathers 

sown! 


SKIPPER    IRESON'S    RIDE. 

OF  all   the  rides    since  the  birth  of 

time, 

Told  in  story  or  sung  in  rhyme,  — 
On  Apuleius's  Golden  Ass, 
Or  one-eyed  Calendar's  horse  of  brass, 
Witch  astride  of  a  human  hack, 
Islam's  prophet  on  Al-Borak, — 
The  strangest  ride  that  ever  was  sped 
Was  Ireson's,  out  from  Marblehead! 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried 

in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead! 


Body  of  turkey,  head  of  owl, 
Wings  a-droop  like  a  rained-on  fowl, 
Feathered  and  rufHed  in  every  part, 
Skipper  Ireson  stood  in  the  cart. 
Scores  of  women,  old  and  young, 
Strong  of  muscle,  and  glib  of  tongue, 
Pushed  and  pulled  up  the  rocky  lane, 
Shouting   and    singing  the  shrill  re- 
frain : 
"  Here 's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd 

horrt, 
Torr'd   an'    futherrd  an'  corr'd  in 

a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead!" 

Wrinkled  scolds  with  hands  on  hips, 
Girls  in  bloom  of  cheek  and  lips, 
Wild-eyed,  free-limbed,  such  as  chase 
Bacchus  round  some  antique  vase, 
Brief  of  skirt,  with  ankles  bare, 
Loose  of  kerchief  and  loose  of  hair, 
With  conch-shells  blowing  and  fish- 
horns'  twang, 

Over  and  over  the  Maenads  sang : 
"  Here 's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd 

horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a 

corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead ! " 

Small  pity  for  him !  —  He  sailed  away 
From    a    leaking    ship,    in    Chaleur 

Bay,- 

Sailed  away  from  a  sinking  wreck, 
With    his  own  townVpeople  on  her 

deck! 
"  Lay  by !    lay  by !  "    they  called   to 

him. 

Back  he  answered,  "  Sink  or  swim! 
Brag  of  your  catch  of  fish  again ! " 
And  off  he  sailed  through  the  fog  and 

rain! 

Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in 

a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead! 

Fathoms  deep  in  dark  Chaleur 
That  wreck  shall  lie  forevermore. 
Mother  and  sister,  wife  and  maid, 


TELLING  THE   BEES. 


285 


Looked  from  the  rocks  of  Marblehead 
Over  the  moaning  and  rainy  sea,  — 
Looked  for  the  coming  that  might  not 

be! 
What  did  the  winds  and  the  sea-birds 

say 
Of    the    cruel    captain    who     sailed 

away  ?  — 
Old   Floyd    Ireson,    for    his    hard 

heart, 
Tarred    and  feathered  and  carried 

in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead! 

Through  the  street,  on  either  side. 
Up  flew  windows,  doors  swung  wide ; 
Sharp-tongued    spinsters,    old   wives 

gray, 

Treble  lent  the  fish-horn's  bray. 
Sea-worn  grandsires,  cripple-bound, 
Hulks  of  old  sailors  run  aground, 
Shook    head,  and  fist,'  and  hat,  and 

cane, 
And  cracked  with  curses  the  hoarse 

refrain  : 
"Here's 'Find  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd 

horrt, 
Torr'd  an1  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a 

corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead!" 

Sweetly  along  the  Salem  road 
Bloom  of  orchard  and  lilac  showed. 
Little  the  wicked  skipper  knew 
Of  the  fields  so  green  and  the  sky  so 

blue. 

Riding  there  in  his  sorry  trim, 
Like  an  Indian  idol  glum  and  grim. 
Scarcely    he    seemed    the    sound   to 

hear 

Of  voices  shouting,  far  and  near : 
"  Here  's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd 

horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a 

corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead !  " 

"  Hear    me,  neighbors ! "    at  last  he 

cried,  — 
<k  What  to  me  is  this  noisy  ride  ? 


What  is  the  shame  that  clothes  the 

skin 
To    the    nameless    horror   that    lives 

within? 

Waking  or  sleeping,  I  see  a  wreck, 
And  hear  a  cry  from  a  reeling  deck ! 
Hate  me  and  curse  me,  —  I  only  dread 
The  hand  of  God  and  the  face  of  the 

dead!" 
Said  old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard 

heart, 
Tarred   and  feathered  and  carried 

in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead! 

Then  the  wife  of  the  skipper  lost  at 

sea 
Said,  "  God  has  touched  him !  —  why 

should  we  ? " 
Said  an  old  wife  mourning  her  only 

son, 
"  Cut  the  rogue's  tether  and  let  him 

run!1' 
So   with    soft    relentings    and    rude 

excuse, 
Half  scorn,  half  pity,  they  cut    him 

loose, 

And  gave  him  a  cloak  to  hide  him  in, 
And    left  him  alone  with  his  shame 

and  sin. 
Poor    Floyd    Ireson,  for   his    hard 

heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried 

in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead! 


TELLING   THE    BEES. 

HERE  is  the  place ;  right  over  the  hill 

Runs  the  path  I  took  ; 
You  can  see  the  gap  in  the  old  wall 

still. 

And   the    stepping-stones    in    the 
shallow  brook. 

There  is  the  house,  with  the  gate  red- 
barred, 
And  the  poplars  tall ; 


286 


HOME  BALLADS. 


And  the  barn's  brown  length,  and  the 

cattle-yard, 

And  the  white  horns  tossing  above 
the  wall. 

There  are  the  beehives  ranged  in  the 

sun; 

And  down  by  the  brink 
Of  the    brook    are  her  poor  flowers, 

weed-o'errun, 
Pansy  and  daffodil,  rose  and  pink. 

A  year  has  gone,  as  the  tortoise  goes, 

Heavy  and  slow ; 
And  the  same   rose   blows,  and   the 

same  sun  glows, 

And  the  same  brook  sings  of  a  year 
ago. 

There's  the  same  sweet  clover-smell 
in  the  breeze ; 

And  the  June  sun  warm 
Tangles  his  wings  of  fire  in  the  trees, 

Setting,  as  then,  over  Fernside  farm. 

I  mind  me  how  with  a  lover's  care 

From  my  Sunday  coat 
I  brushed  off  the  burrs,  and  smoothed 

my  hair, 

And    cooled   at   the  brookside  my 
brow  and  throat. 

Since     we     parted,     a     month     had 

passed,  — 
To  love,  a  year ; 
Down  through  the  beeches  I  looked 

at  last 

On  the  little  red  gate  and  the  well- 
sweep  near. 

I  can  see  it  all  now,  —  the  slantwise 

rain 

Of  light  through  the  leaves, 
The  sundown's  blaze  on  her  window- 
pane, 
The  bloom  of  her  roses  under  the 


Just  the  same  as  a  month  before,  — 
The  house  and  the  trees, 


The  barn's  brown  gable,  the  vine  by 

the  door,  — 

Nothing  changed  but  the  hives  of 
bees. 

Before  them,  under  the  garden  wall, 

Forward  and  back, 
Went  drearily  singing  the  chore-girl 

small, 

Draping  each  hive  with  a  shred  of 
black. 

Trembling,   I   listened :    the   summer 

sun 

Had  the  chill  of  snow  ; 
For  I  knew  she  was  telling  the  bees 

of  one 
Gone  on  the  journey  we  all  must  go ! 

Then  I    said   to   myself,  "My  Mary 

weeps 

For  the  dead  to-day  : 
Haply  her  blind  old  grandsire  sleeps 
The  fret  and  the  pain  of  his  age 
away." 

But  her  dog  whined  low  ;  on  the  door- 
way sill, 

With  his  cane  to  his  chin, 
The  old  man  sat ;  and  the  chore-girl 

still 
Sung  to  the  bees  stealing  out  and  in. 

And  the  song  she  was  singing  ever 

since 

In  my  ear  sounds  on  :  — 
"  Stay  at  home,  pretty  bees,  fly  not 

hence! 
Mistress  Mary  is  dead  and  gone!" 


THE    SYCAMORES. 

IN  the  outskirts  of  the  village, 
On  the  river's  winding  shores, 

Stand  the  Occidental  plane-trees, 
Stand  the  ancient  sycamores. 

One  long  century  hath  been  numbered, 
And  another  half-way  told, 


THE   SYCAMORES. 


287 


Since  the  rustic  Irish  gleeman 
Broke  for  them  the  virgin  mould. 

Deftly  set  to  Celtic  music, 

At  his  violin's  sound  they  grew, 

Through  the  moonlit  eves  of  summer, 
Making  Amphion's  fable  true. 

Rise  again,  thou  poor  Hugh  Tallant ! 

Pass  in  jerkin  green  along, 
With  thy  eyes  brimful  of  laughter, 

And  thy  mouth  as  full  of  song. 

Pioneer  of  Erin's  outcasts, 
With  his  fiddle  and  his  pack  ; 

Little  dreamed  the  village  Saxons 
Of  the  myriads  at  his  back. 

How  he  wrought  with  spade  and  fiddle, 
Delved  by  day  and  sang  by  night, 

With  a  hand  that  never  wearied, 
And  a  heart  forever  light,  — 

Still  the  gay  tradition  mingles 
With  a  record  grave  and  drear, 

Like  the  rolic  air  of  Cluny, 
With  the  solemn  march  of  Mear. 

When  the  box-tree,  white  with  blos- 
soms, 
Made   the   sweet   May   woodlands 

glad, 

And  the  Aronia  by  the  river 
Lighted  up  the  swarming  shad, 

And  the  bulging  nets   swept  shore- 
ward, 

With  their  silver-sided  haul, 
Midst  the  shouts  of  dripping  fishers, 

He  was  merriest  of  them  all. 

When,  among  the  jovial  huskers, 
Love  stole  in  at  Labor's  side 

With  the  lusty  airs  of  England, 
Soft  his  Celtic  measures  vied. 

Songs  of  love  and  wailing  lyke-wake, 
And  the  merry  fair's  carouse  ; 

Of  the  wild  Red  Fox  of  Erin 
And  the  Woman  of  Three  Cows, 


By  the  blazing  hearths  of  winter, 
Pleasant  seemed  his  simple  tales, 

Midst  the  grimmer  Yorkshire  legends 
And  the  mountain  myths  of  Wales. 

How  the  souls  in  Purgatory 
Scrambled  up  from  fate  forlorn, 

On  St.  Keven's  sackcloth  ladder, 
Slyly  hitched  to  Satan's  horn. 

Of  the  fiddler  who  at  Tara 

Played  all  night  to  ghosts  of  kings  ; 
Of  the  brown  dwarfs,  and  the  fairies 

Dancing  in  their  Moorland  rings ! 

Jolliest  of  our  birds  of  singing, 
Best  he  loved  the  Bob-o-link. 

"  Hush ! "  he  'd  say,  "  the  tipsy  fairies ! 
Hear  the  little  folks  in  drink!" 

Merry-faced,  with  spade  and  fiddle, 
Singing  through  the  ancient  town, 

Only  this,  of  poor  Hugh  Tallant, 
Hath  Tradition  handed  down. 

Not  a  stone  his  grave  discloses  ; 

But  if  yet  his  spirit  walks, 
'T  is  beneath  the  trees  he  planted, 

And  when  Bob-o-Lincoln  talks  ; 

Green  memorials  of  the  gleeman! 

Linking  still  the  river-shores, 
With  their  shadows  cast  by  sunset, 

Stand.  Hugh  Tallant's  sycamores! 


When  the  Father  of  his  Country 
Through     the     north-land     riding 

came, 
And    the    roofs    were    starred    with 

banners, 
And  the  steeples  rang  acclaim,  — 

When  each  war-scarred  Continental, 
Leaving  smithy,  mill,  and  farm, 

Waved  his  rusted  sword  in  welcome, 
And  shot  off  his  old  king's  arm, — 

Slowly  passed  that  august  Presence 
Down  the  thronged  and  shouting 
street ; 


288 


HOME   BALLADS. 


Village  girls  as  white  as  angels, 
Scattering  flowers  around  his  feet. 

Midway,  where  the  plane-tree's  shadow 
Deepest  fell,  his  rein  he  drew ; 

On  his  stately  head,  uncovered. 
Cool  and  soft  the  west-wind  blew. 

And  he  stood  up  in  his  stirrups, 
Looking  up  and  looking  down 

On  the  hills  of  Gold  and  Silver 
Rimming  round  the  little  town,  — 

On  the  river,  full  of  sunshine, 
To  the  lap  of  greenest  vales 

Winding   down    from    wooded  head- 
lands, 
Willow-skirted,  white  with  sails. 

And  he   said,  the  landscape  sweep- 
ing 

Slowly  with  his  ungloved  hand, 
"  I  have  seen  no  prospect  fairer 

In  this  goodly  Eastern  land.  " 

Then  the  bugles  of  his  escort 
Stirred  to  life  the  cavalcade : 

And  that  head,  so  bare  and  stately, 
Vanished     down     the    depths    of 
shade. 

Ever  since,  in  town  and  farm-house, 
Life  has  had  its  ebb  and  flow  ; 

Thrice  hath  passed  the  human  har- 
vest 
To  its  garner  green  and  low. 

But  the  trees  the  gleeman  planted, 
Through  the    changes,  changeless 
stand ; 

As  the  marble  calm  of  Tadmor 
Marks  the  desert's  shifting  sand. 

Still  the  level  moon  at  rising 
Silvers  o'er  each  stately  shaft ; 

Still  beneath  them,  half  in  shadow, 
Singing,  glides  the  pleasure  craft. 

Still  beneath  them,  arm-enfolded, 
Love  and  Youth  together  stray  ; 


While,  as  heart  to  heart  beats  faster, 
More  and  more  their  feet  delay. 

Where  the  ancient  cobbler,  Keezar, 
On  the  open  hillside  wrought, 

Singing,  as  he  drew  his  stitches, 
Songs  his  German  masters  taught, — 

Singing,  with  his  gray  hair  floating 
Round  his  rosy  ample  face,— 

Now  a  thousand  Saxon  craftsmen 
Stitch  and  hammer  in  his  place. 

All  the  pastoral  lanes  so  grassy 
Now  are  Traffic's  dusty  streets  ; 

From  the  village,  grown  a  city, 
Fast  the  rural  grace  retreats. 

But,  still  green,  and  tall,  and  stately, 
On  the  river's  winding  shores, 

Stand  the  Occidental  plane-trees, 
Stand  Hugh  Tallant's  sycamores. 


THE  DOUBLE-HEADED  SNAKE 
OF  NEWBURY. 

"  Concerning  ye  Amphisbsena,  as  soon  as 
I  received  your  commands,  I  made  diligent 
inquiry:  .  .  .  .  he  assures  me  yt  it  had  really 
two  heads,  one  at  each  end ;  two  mouths, 
two  stings  or  tongues."  —  REV.  CHRISTO- 
PHER TOPPAN  to  COTTON  MATHER. 

FAR  away  in  the  twilight  time 
Of  every  people,  in  every  clime, 
Dragons   and   griffins  and   monsters 

dire, 

Born  of  water,  and  air,  and  fire, 
Or  nursed,  like  the   Python,   in   the 

mud 

And  ooze  of  the  old  Deucalion  flood, 
Crawl   and    wriggle   and    foam   with 

rage, 
Through  dusk   tradition   and   ballad 

age. 
So  from  the  childhood   of  Newbury 

town 
And  its  time  of  fable  the  tale  comes 

down 


THE  DOUBLE-HEADED   SNAKE   OF  NEWBURY. 


289 


Of  a  terror  which  haunted  bush  and 

brake, 
The  Amphisbaena,  the  Double  Snake! 

Thou  who  makest  the  tale  thy  mirth, 
Consider  that  strip  of  Christian  earth 
On  the  desolate  shore  of  a  sailless 

sea, 

Full  of  terror  and  mystery, 
Half-redeemed  from  the  evil  hold 
Of  the  wood  so  dreary,  and  dark,  and 

old, 
Which  drank  with  its  lips  of  leaves 

the  dew 
When    Time   was    young,   and    the 

world  was  new, 
And  wove  its  shadows  with  sun  and 

moon, 
Ere  the  stones  of  Cheops  were  squared 

and  hewn. 

Think  of  the  sea's  dread  monotone, 
Of  the  mournful  wail  from  the  pine- 
wood  blown, 
Of  the  strange,  vast  splendors  that  lit 

the  North, 
Of  the  troubled  throes  of  the  quaking 

earth, 

And  the  dismal  tales  the  Indian  told, 
Till  the  settler's  heart  at  his  hearth 

grew  cold. 
And  he  shrank  from  the  tawny  wizard's 

boasts, 
And   the   hovering  shadows   seemed 

full  of  ghosts, 

And  above,  below,  and  on  every  side, 
The  fear  of  his   creed  seemed  veri- 
fied ;- 
And  think,  if  his  lot  were  now  thine 

own, 
To  grope  with  terrors  nor  named  nor 

known, 

How  laxer  muscle  and  weaker  nerve 
And  a  feebler  faith  thy  need   might 

serve ; 

And  own  to  thyself  the  wonder  more 
That  the  snake  had  two  heads,  and 

not  a  score ! 

Whether  he   lurked  in  the  Oldtown 
fen 


Or  the  gray  earth-flax  of  the  Devil's 

Den, 

Or  swam  in  the  wooded  Artichoke, 
Or  coiled  by  the  Northman's  Written 

Rock, 

Nothing  on  record  is  left  to  show ; 
Only  the  fact  that  he  lived,  we  know, 
And  left  the  cast  of  a  double  head 
In   the   scaly  mask  which  he  yearly 

shed. 
For  he  carried  a  head  where  his  tail 

should  be, 
And  the  two,  of  course,  could  never 

agree, 
But  wriggled   about  with   main   and 

might, 

Now  to  the  left  and  now  to  the  right ; 
Pulling  and  twisting  this  way  and  that, 
Neither  knew  what  the  other  was  at. 

A  snake  with  two  heads,  lurking  so 

near ! — 

Judge  of  the  wonder,  guess  at  the  fear! 
Think  what  ancient  gossips  might  say, 
Shaking  their  heads  in  their  dreary 

way, 

Between  the  meetings   on    Sabbath- 
day! 

How  urchins,  searching  at  day's  de- 
cline 
The   Common  Pasture  for  sheep  or 

kine, 

The  terrible  double-ganger  heard 
In  leafy  rustle  or  whir  of  bird ! 
Think  what  a  zest  it  gave  to  the  sport, 
In  berry-time,  of  the  younger  sort, 
As  over  pastures  blackberry-twined, 
Reuben  and  Dorothy  lagged  behind, 
And   closer   and    closer,  for   fear   of 

harm, 

The  maiden  clung  to  her  lover's  arm  ; 
And  how  the  spark,  who  was  forced 

to  stay, 
By  his  sweetheart's  fears,  till  the  break 

of  day, 
Thanked  the  snake  for  the  fond  delay! 

Far  and  wide  the  tale  was  told, 
Like    a    snowball    growing    while    it 
rolled. 


290 


HOME   BALLADS. 


The  nurse  hushed  with  it  the  baby's 

cry; 
And  it  served,  in  the  worthy  minister's 

eye, 

To  paint  the  primitive  serpent  by. 
Cotton  Mather  came  galloping  down 
All  the  way  to  Newbury  town, 
With  his  eyes  agog  and  his  ears  set 

wide, 
And   his   marvellous    inkhorn  at  his 

side; 

Stirring  the  while  in  the  shallow  pool 
Of  his  brains  for  the  lore  he  learned 

at  school, 

To  garnish  the  story,  with  here  a  streak 
Of  Latin,  and  there  another  of  Greek  : 
And  the  tales  he  heard  and  the  notes 

he  took, 


Behold !  are  they  not  in  his  Wonder- 
Book? 

Stories,  like  dragons,  are  hard  to  kill. 
If  the  snake  does  not,  the  tale  runs 

still 
In   Byfield   Meadows,   on    Pipestave 

Hill. 

And  still,  whenever  husband  and  wife 
Publish  the  shame  of  their  daily  strife, 
And,  with  mad  cross-purpose,  tug  and 

strain 

At  either  end  of  the  marriage-chain, 
The  gossips  say,  with  a  knowing  shake 
Of  their  gray  heads,  "  Look   at   the 

Double  Snake! 
One  in  body  and  two  in  will, 
The  Amphisbaena  is  living  still ! " 


THE   SWAN   SONG   OF   PARSON   AVERY. 

WHEN  the  reaper's  task  was  ended,  and  the  summer  wearing  late, 
Parson  Avery  sailed  from  Newbury,  with  his  wife  and  children  eight, 
Dropping  down  the  river-harbor  in  the  shallop  "  Watch  and  Wait." 


Pleasantly  lay  the  clearings  in  the  mellow  summer-morn, 
With  the  newly  planted  orchards  drc 
And  the  homesteads  like  green  islan 


With  the  newly  planted  orchards  dropping  their  fruits  first-born, 

lands  amid  a  sea  of  corn. 


Broad  meadows  reached  out  seaward  the  tided  creeks  between, 
And  hills  rolled  wave-like  inland,  with  oaks  and  walnuts  green ;  — 
A  fairer  home,  a  goodlier  land,  his  eyes  had  never  seen. 

Yet  away  sailed  Parson  Avery,  away  where  duty  led, 

And  the  voice  of  God  seemed  calling,  to  break  the  living  bread 

To  the  souls  of  fishers  starving  on  the  rocks  of  Marblehead. 

All  day  they  sailed :  at  nightfall  the  pleasant  land-breeze  died, 
The  blackening  sky,  at  midnight,  its  starry  lights  denied, 
And  far  and  low  the  thunder  of  tempest  prophesied ! 

Blotted  out  were  all  the  coast-lines,  gone  were  rock,  and  wood,  and  sand ; 
Grimly  anxious  stood  the  skipper  with  the  rudder  in  his  hand, 
And  questioned  of  the  darkness  what  was  sea  and  what  was  land. 

And  the  preacher  heard  his  dear  ones,  nestled  round  him,  weeping  sore : 
"Never  heed,  my  little  children!  Christ  is  walking  on  before 
To  the  pleasant  land  of  heaven,  where  the  sea  shall  be  no  more." 


THE  TRUCE   OF   PlSCATAQUA. 


291 


All  at  once  the  great  cloud  parted,  like  a  curtain  drawn  aside, 
To  let  down  the  torch  of  lightning  on  the  terror  far  and  wide ; 
And  the  thunder  and  the  whirlwind  together  smote  the  tide. 

There  was  wailing  in  the  shallop,  woman's  wail  and  man's  despair, 
A  crash  of  breaking  timbers  on  the  rocks  so  sharp  and  bare, 
And,  through  it  all,  the  murmur  of  Father  Averts  prayer. 

From  his  struggle  in  the  darkness  with  the  wild  waves  and  the  blast, 
On  a  rock,  where  every  billow  broke  above  him  as  it  passed, 
Alone,  of  all  his  household,  the  man  of  God  was  cast. 

There  a  comrade  heard  him  praying,  in  the  pause  of  wave  and  wind : 
"  All  my  own  have  gone  before  me,  and  I  linger  just  behind  ; 
Not  for  life  I  ask,  but  only  for  the  rest  thy  ransomed  find! 

"  In  this  night  of  death  I  challenge  the  promise  of  thy  word!  — 

Let  me  see  the  great  salvation  of  which  mine  ears  have  heard!  — 

Let  me  pass  from  hence  forgiven,  through  the  grace  of  Christ,  our  Lord! 

"  In  the  baptism  of  these  waters  wash  white  my  every  sin, 
And  let  me  follow  up  to  thee  my  household  and  my  kin! 
Open  the  sea-gate  of  thy  heaven,  and  let  me  enter  in! " 

When  the  Christian  sings  his  death-song,  all  the  listening  heavens  draw  near, 

And  the  angels,  leaning  over  the  walls  of  crystal,  hear 

How  the  notes  so  faint  and  broken  swell  to  music  in  God's  ear. 

The  ear  of  God  was  open  to  his  servant's  last  request ; 

As  the  strong  wave  swept  him  downward  the  sweet  hymn  upward  pressed, 

And  the  soul  of  Father  Avery  went,  singing,  to  its  rest. 

There  was  wailing  on  the  mainland,  from  the  rocks  of  Marblehead ; 
In  the  stricken  church  of  Newbury  the  notes  of  prayer  were  read; 
And  long,  by  board  and  hearthstone,  the  living  mourned  the  dead. 

And  still  the  fishers  outbound,  or  scudding  from  the  squall, 

With  grave  and  reverent  faces,  the  ancient  tale  recall, 

When  they  see  the  white  waves  breaking  on  the  Rock  of  Avery's  Fall! 


THE  TRUCE  OF  PlSCATAQUA. 
1675. 

RAZE  these  long  blocks  of  brick  and 

stone, 

These  huge  mill-monsters  overgrown  ; 
Blot  out  the  humbler  piles  as  well, 


Where,   moved   like    living  shuttles, 

dwell 

The  weaving  genii  of  the  bell ; 
Tear  from  the  wild  Cocheco's  track 
The  dams  that  hold  its  torrents  back  ; 
And  let  the  loud-rejoicing  fall 
Plunge,  roaring,  down  its  rocky  wall; 
And  let  the  Indian's  paddle  play 


292 


HOME  BALLADS. 


On  the  unbridged  Piscataqua! 
Wide  over  hill  and  valley  spread 
Once    more     the    forest,    dusk    and 

dread, 

With  here  and  there  a  clearing  cut 
From   the  walled    shadows  round    it 

shut ; 
Each    with    its    farm-house    builded 

rude, 
By    English    yeoman    squared     and 

hewed, 
And  the  grim,  flankered  block-house 

bound 

With  bristling  palisades  around. 
So,  haply,  shall  before  thine  eyes 
The  dusty  veil  of  centuries  rise, 
The  old,  strange  scenery  overlay 
The  tamer  pictures  of  to-day, 
While,  like  the  actors  in  a  play, 
Pass  in  their  ancient  guise  along         ' 
The  figures  of  my  border  song  : 
What  time  beside  Cocheco's  flood 
The   white    man   and    the   red    man 

stood. 

With  words   of  peace  and   brother- 
hood ; 

When  passed  the  sacred  calumet 
From  lip  to  lip  with  fire-draught  wet, 
And,  puffed  in  scorn,  the  peace-pipe's 

smoke 
Through  the  gray  beard  of  Waldron 

broke, 
And    Squando's   voice,    in   suppliant 

plea 

For  mercy,  struck  the  haughty  key 
Of  one  who  held,  in  any  fate, 
His  native  pride  inviolate! 

"  Let  your  ears  be  opened  wide ! 
He  who  speaks  has  never  lied. 
Waldron  of  Piscataqua, 
Hear  what  Squando  has  to  say! 

"  Squando  shuts  his  eyes  and  sees, 
Far  off,  Saco's  hemlock-trees. 
In  his  wigwam,  still  as  stone, 
Sits  a  woman  all  alone, 

"  Wampum  beads  and  birchen  strands 
Dropping  from  her  careless  hands, 


Listening  ever  for  the  fleet 
Patter  of  a  dead  child's  feet ! 

"  When  the  moon  a  year  ago 
Told  the  flowers  the  time  to  blow, 
In  that  lonely  wigwam  smiled 
Menewee,  our  little  child. 

"  Ere  that  moon  grew  thin  and  old, 
He  was  lying  still  and  cold ; 
Sent  before  us,  weak  and  small, 
When  the  Master  did  not  call! 

"On  his  little  grave  I  lay ; 
Three  times  went  and  came  the  day; 
Thrice  above  me  blazed  the  noon, 
Thrice  upon  me  wept  the  moon. 

"  In  the  third  night-watch  I  heard, 
Far  and  low,  a  spirit-bird ; 
Very  mournful,  very  wild. 
Sang  the  totem  of  my  child. 

"  '  Menewee,  poor  Menewee, 
Walks  a  path  he  cannot  see : 
Let  the  white  man's  wigwam  light 
With  its  blaze  his  steps  aright. 

"  (  All  un-called,  he  dares  not  show 
Empty  hands  to  Manito  : 
Better  gifts  he  cannot  bear 
Than  the  scalps  his  slayers  wear.' 

"  All  the  while  the  totem  sang, 
Lightning  blazed  and  thunder  rang ; 
And  a  black  cloud,  reaching  high, 
Pulled  the  white  moon  from  the  sky. 

"  I,  the  medicine-man,  whose  ear 
All  that  spirits  hear  can  hear,  — 
I,  whose  eyes  are  wide  to  see 
All  the  things  that  are  to  be,  — 

"  Well  I  knew  the  dreadful  signs 
In  the  whispers  of  the  pines, 
In  the  river  roaring  loud, 
In  the  mutter  of  the  cloud. 

"  At  the  breaking  of  the  day, 
From  the  grave  1  passed  away ; 


THE  TRUCE  OF   PISCATAQUA. 


293 


Flowers   bloomed    round    me,  birds 

sang  glad. 
But  my  heart  was  hot  and  mad. 

"  There  is  rust  on  Squando's  knife, 
From  the  warm,  red  springs  of  life  ; 
On  the  funeral  hemlock-trees 
Many  a  scalp  the  totem  sees. 

"  Blood  for  blood!     But  evermore 
Squando's  heart  is  sad  and  sore ; 
And  his  poor  squaw  waits  at  home 
For  the  feet  that  never  come! 

"Waldron  of  Cocheco,  hear! 
Squando  speaks,  who  laughs  at  fear ; 
Take  the  captives  he  has  ta'en ; 
Let  the  land  have  peace  again!" 

As  the  words  died  on  his  tongue, 
Wide  apart  his  warriors  swung  ; 
Parted,  at  the  sign  he  gave, 
Right  and  left,  like  Egypt's  wave. 

And,  like  Israel  passing  free 
Through  the  prophet-charmed  sea, 
Captive  mother,  wife,  and  child 
Through  the  dusky  terror  filed. 

One  alone,  a  little  maid, 
Middleway  her  steps  delayed, 
Glancing,  with  quick,  troubled  sight, 
Round  about  from  red  to  white. 

Then  his  hand  the  Indian  laid 
On  the  little  maiden's  head, 
Lightly  from  her  forehead  fair 
Smoothing  back  her  yellow  hair. 

"  Gift  or  favor  ask  I  none  ; 
What  I  have  is  all  my  own : 
Never  yet  the  birds  have  sung. 
i  Squando  hath  a  beggar's  tongue.' 

"  Yet  for  her  who  waits  at  home, 
For  the  dead  who  cannot  come, 
Let  the  little  Gold-hair  be 
In  the  place  of  Menewee! 


"  Mishanock,  my  little  star! 
Come  to  Saco's  pines  afar ; 
Where  the  sad  one  waits  at  home1, 
Wequashim,  my  moonlight,  come ! " 

"What!"  quoth  Waldron,  "leave   a 

child 

Christian-born  to  heathens  wild? 
As  God  lives,  from  Satan's  hand 
I  will  pluck  her  as  a  brand!  " 

"Hear   me,    white    man!"    Squando 

cried ; 

"  Let  the  little  one  decide. 
Wequashim,  my  moonlight,  say, 
Wilt  thou  go  with  me,  or  stay?" 

Slowly,  sadly,  half  afraid, 

Half  regretfully,  the  maid 

Owned  the  ties  of  blood  and  race,  — 

Turned  from  Squando's  pleading  face. 

Not  a  word  the  Indian  spoke, 
But  his  wampum  chain  he  broke, 
And  the  beaded  wonder  hung 
On  that  neck  so  fair  and  young. 

Silence-shod,  as  phantoms  seem 
In  the  marches  of  a  dream, 
Single-filed,  the  grim  array 
Through  the  pine-trees  wound  away. 

Doubting,  trembling,  sore  amazed, 
Through  her  tears  the   young  child 

gazed. 

"  God  preserve  her!  "  Waldron  said  ; 
"  Satan  hath  bewitched  the  maid  !  " 


Years  went  and  came.      At  close  of 

day 

Singing  came  a  child  from  play, 
Tossing  from  her  loose-locked  head 
Gold  in  sunshine,  brown  in  shade. 

Pride  was  in  the  mother's  look, 
But  her  head  she  gravely  shook, 
And  with  lips  that  fondly  smiled 
Feigned  to  chide  her  truant  child. 


294 


HOME   BALLADS. 


Unabashed,  the  maid  began  : 
"  Up  and  down  the  brook  I  ran, 
Where,  beneath  the  bank  so  steep, 
Lie  the  spotted  trout  asleep. 

"  '  Chip ! '  went  squirrel  on  the  wall, 
After  me  I  heard  him  call, 
And  the  cat-bird  on  the  tree 
Tried  his  best  to  mimic  me. 

"  Where  the  hemlocks  grew  so  dark 
That  I  stopped  to  look  and  hark, 
On  a  log,  with  feather-hat, 
By  the  path,  an  Indian  sat. 

"  Then  I  cried,  and  ran  away ; 
But  he  called,  and  bade  me  stay ; 
And  his  voice  was  good  and  mild 
As  my  mother's  to  her  child. 

"  And  he  took  my  wampum  chain, 
Looked  and  looked  it  o'er  again  ; 
Gave  me  berries,  and,  beside, 
On  my  neck  a  plaything  tied." 

Straight  the  mother  stooped  to  see 
What  the  Indian's  gift  might  be. 
On  the  braid  of  Wampum  hung, 
Lo !  a  cross  of  silver  swung. 

Well  she  knew  its  graven  sign, 
Squando's  bird  and  totem  pine  ; 
And,  a  mirage  of  the  brain, 
Flowed  her  childhood  back  again. 

Flashed  the  roof  the  sunshine  through, 
Into  space  the  walls  outgrew; 
On  the  Indian's  wigwam-mat, 
Blossom-crowned,  again  she  sat. 

Cool  she  felt  the  west-wind  blow, 
In  her  ear  the  pines  sang  low, 
And,  like  links  from  out  a  chain, 
Dropped  the  years  of  care  and  pain. 

From  the  outward  toil  and  din, 
From  the  griefs  that  gnaw  within, 
To  the  freedom  of  the  w*oods 
Called    the     birds,   and    winds,   and 
floods. 


Well,  O  painful  minister! 
Watch  thy  flock,  but  blame  not  her, 
If  her  ear  grew  sharp  to  hear 
All  their  voices  whispering  near. 

Blame  her  not,  as  to  her  soul 
All  the  desert's  glamour  stole, 
That  a  tear  for  childhood's  loss 
Dropped  upon  the  Indian's  cross. 

When,  that  night,  the  Book  was  read, 
And  she  bowed  her  widowed  head, 
And  a  prayer  for  each  loved  name 
Rose  like  incense  from  a  flame, 

To  the  listening  ear  of  Heaven, 
Lo!  another  name  was  given  : 
kk  P^ather,  give  the  Indian  rest! 
Bless  him!  for  his  love  has  blest! " 


MY   PLAYMATE. 

THE  pines  were  dark  on  Ramoth  hill, 
Their  song  was  soft  and  low  ; 

The  blossoms  in  the  sweet  May  wind 
Were  falling  like  the  snow. 

The  blossoms  drifted  at  our  feet, 
The  orchard  birds  sang  clear  ; 

The  sweetest  and  the  saddest  day 
It  seemed  of  all  the  year. 

For,  more  to  me  than  birds  or  flowers, 
My  playmate  left  her  home, 

And    took    with    her    the    laughing 

spring, 
The  music  and  the  bloom. 

She  kissed  the  lips  of  kith  and  kin, 
She  laid  her  hand  in  mine  : 

What  more  could  ask  the  bashful  boy 
Who  fed  her  father's  kine? 


She  left  us  in  the  bloom  of  May 
The  constant  years  told  o'er 

Their    seasons   with    as   sweet 

morns, 
But  she  came  back  no  more. 


May 


THE   SHADOW  AND  THE   LIGHT. 


295 


I  walk,  with  noiseless  feet,  the  round 

Of  uneventful  years  ; 
Still  o'er  and  o1er  I  sow  the  spring 

And  reap  the  autumn  ears. 

She  lives  where  all  the  golden  year 

Her  summer  roses  blow  ; 
The  dusky  children  of  the  sun 

Before  her  come  and  go. 

There  haply  with  her  jewelled  hands 
She  smooths  her  silken  gown, — 

No  more  the  homespun  lap  wherein 
I  shook  the  walnuts  down. 

The  wild  grapes  wait  us  by  the  brook, 
The  brown  nuts  on  the  hill, 

And  still  the  May-day  flowers  make 

sweet 
The  woods  of  Follymill. 

The  lilies  blossom  in  the  pond, 
The  bird  builds  in  the  tree, 

The  dark  pines  sing  on  Ramoth  hill 
The  slow  song  of  the  sea. 

I  wonder  if  she  thinks  of  them, 
And  how  the  old  time  seems,  — 


If  ever  the  pines  of  Ramoth  wood 
Are  sounding  in  her  dreams. 

I  see  her  face,  I  hear  her  voice : 
Does  she  remember  mine? 

And  what  to  her  is  now  the  boy 
Who  fed  her  father's  kine? 

What  cares  she  that  the  orioles  build 
For  other  eyes  than  ours,  — 

That  other  hands  with  nuts  are  filled, 
And  other  laps  with  flowers  ? 

O  playmate  in  the  golden  time! 

Our  mossy  seat  is  green, 
Its  fringing  violets  blossom  yet, 

The  old  trees  o'er  it  lean. 

The  winds  so  sweet  with  birch  and 
fern 

A  sweeter  memory  blow  ; 
And  there  in  spring  the  veeries  sing 

The  song  of  long  ago. 

And  still  the  pines  of  Ramoth  wood 
Are  moaning  like  the  sea,  — 

The  moaning  of  the  sea  of  change 
Between  myself  and  thee ! 


POEMS   AND   LYRICS. 


THE    SHADOW    AND    THE 
LIGHT. 

"  And  I  sought,  whence  is  Evil :  I  set  be- 
fore the  eye  of  my  spirit  the  whole  creation  ; 
whatsoever  we  see  therein,  —  sea,  earth,  air, 
stars,  trees,  moral  creatures,  —  yea,  whatso- 
ever there  is  we  do  not  see,  —  angels  and 
spiritual  powers.  Where  is  evil,  and  whence 
comes  it,  since  God  the  Good  hath  created 
all  things?  Why  made  He  anything  at  all 
of  evil,  and  not  rather  by  His  Almighti- 
ness  cause  it  not  to  be?  These  thoughts  I 
turned  in  my  miserable  heart,  overcharged 
with  most  gnawing  cares."  "  And,  admon- 
ished to  return  to  mvself,  I  entered  even 
into  my  inmost  soul,  Thou  being  my  guide, 
and  beheld  even  beyond  my  soul  and  mind 


the  Light  unchangeable.  He  who  knows 
the  Truth  knows  what  that  Light  is,  and  he 
that  knows  it  knows  Eternity!  O  Truth, 
who  art  Eternity!  Love,  who  art  Truth! 
Eternity,  who  art  Love  !  And  I  beheld 
that  Thou  madest  all  things  good,  and  to 
Thee  is  nothing  whatsoever  evil.  From  the 
angel  to  the  worm,  from  the  first  motion  to 
the  last,  Thou  settest  each  in  its  place,  and 
everything  is  good  in  its  kind.  Woe  is 
me !  —  how  high  art  Thou  in  the  highest, 
how  deep  in  the  deepest !  and  Thou  never 
departest  from  us  and  we  scarcely  return 
to  Thee."  —  Augustine's  Soliloquies,  Book 
VII. 

THE  fourteen  centuries  fall  away 
Between  us  and  the  Afric  saint, 


296 


POEMS   AND   LYRICS. 


And  at  his  side  we  urge,  to-day, 
The  immemorial  quest  and  old  com- 
plaint. 

No  outward  sign  to  us  is  given,  — 
From    sea    or    earth    comes    no 

reply ; 
Hushed    as    the    warm    Numidian 

heaven 

He    vainly     questioned     bends     our 
frozen  sky. 

No  victory  comes  of  all  our  strife,  — 
From  all  we  grasp  the  meaning 

slips  ; 

The  Sphinx  sits  at  the  gate  of  life. 
With  the  old  question  on  her  awful 
lips. 

In  paths  unknown  wre  hear  the  feet 

Of  fear  before,  and  guilt  behind  ; 

We  pluck  the  wayside  fruit,  and  eat 

Ashes  and  dust    beneath  its  golden 

rind. 

From  age  to  age  descends  unchecked 

The  sad  bequest  of  sire  to  son, 
The  body's   taint,  the  mind's  de- 
fect, — 

Through  every  web  of  life  the  dark 
threads  run. 

O,  why  and  whither?  —  God  knows 

all; 

I  only  know  that  he  is  good, 
And  that  whatever  may  befall 
Or  here  or  there,  must  be  the  best  that 
could. 

Between  the  dreadful  cherubim 
A  Fathers  face  I  still  discern, 
As  Moses  looked  of  old  on  him, 
And   saw   his  glory    into    goodness 
turn! 

For  he  is  merciful  as  just ; 

And  so,  by  faith  correcting  sight, 
I  bow  before  his  will,  and  trust 
Howe'er  they  seem  he  doeth  all  things 
right. 


And  dare  to  hope  that  he  will  make 
The  rugged  smooth,  the  doubtful 

plain ; 

His  mercy  never  quite  forsake  ; 
His  healing  visit  every  realm  of  pain  ; 

That  suffering  is  not  his  revenge 

Upon  his  creatures  weak  and  frail, 
Sent  on  a  path  way  new  and  strange 
With  feet  that  wander  and  with  eyes 
that  fail ; 

That,  o'er  the  crucible  of  pain, 

Watches  the  tender  eye  of  Love 
The  slow  transmuting  of  the  chain 
Whose  links  are  iron  below  to  gold 
above ! 

Ah  me!  we  doubt  the  shining  skies, 
Seen    through    our    shadows    of 

offence, 
And  drown  with  our  poor  childish 

cries 
The  cradle-hymnof  kindly  Providence. 

And  still  we  love  the  evil  cause, 

And  of  the  just  effect  complain  ; 
We  tread  upon  life's  broken  laws, 
And  murmur  at  our  self-inflicted  pain  ; 

We  turn  us  from  the  light,  and  find 
Our   spectral    shapes    before   us 

thrown, 

As  they  who  leave  the  sun  behind 
Walk  in  the  shadows  of  themselves 
alone. 

And  scarce  by  will  or  strength  of 

ours 

We  set  our  faces  to  the  day ; 
Weak,  wavering,  blind,  the  Eternal 

Powers 
Alone  can  turn  us  from  ourselves  away. 

Ourweakness  is  the  strength  of  sin, 
But  love  must  needs  be  stronger 

far,  ^ 

Outreaching  all  and  gathering  in 
The  erring  spirit  and  the  wandering 
star. 


THE   GIFT  OF  TRITEMIUS. 


297 


A  Voice  grows  with   the  growing 

years ; 
Earth,  hushing  down  her  bitter 

cry, 
Looks  upward  from  her  graves,  and 

hears, 
"  The  Resurrection  and  the  Life  ami." 

O  Love  Divine!  —  whose  constant 

beam 
Shines  on  the  eyes  that  will  not 

see, 
And  waits  to  bless   us,   while   we 

dream 

Thouleavest  us  because  we  turn  from 
thee! 

All  souls  that  struggle  and  aspire, 

All  hearts  of  prayer  by  thee  are  lit ; 
And,  dim  or  clear,  thy  tongues  of 

fire 

On  dusky  tribes  and  twilight  centuries 
sit. 

Nor  bounds,  nor  clime,  nor  creed 

thou  know'st, 

Wide  as  our  need  thy  favors  fall ; 
The  white  wings  of  the  Holy  Ghost 
Stoop,  seen  or  unseen,  o'er  the  heads 
of  all. 

O  Beauty,  old  yet  ever  new ! 

Eternal  Voice,  and  Inward  Word, 
The  Logos  of  the  Greek  and  Jew, 
The     old    sphere-music    which     the 
Samian  heard! 

Truth  which  the   sage  and   prophet 

saw, 
Long  sought  without,  but  found 

within, 

The  Law  of  Love  beyond  all  law, 
The  Life  o'erflooding  mortal  death  and 
sin! 

Shine  on  us  with  the  light  which 

glowed 

Upon    the    trance-bound    shep- 
herd's way, 

Who  saw  the  Darkness  overflowed 


And  drowned  by  tides  of  everlasting 
Day. 

Shine,  light  of  God!  —  make  broad 

thy  scope 

To  all  who  sin  and  suffer ;  more 
And  better  than  we  dare  to  hope 
With  Heaven's  compassion  make  our 
longings  poor! 


THE    GIFT   OF    TRITEMIUS. 

TRITEMIUS  OF  HERBIPOLIS,  one  day, 
While  kneeling  at  the  altar's  foot  to 

pray, 
Alone   with    God,  as  was  his   pious 

choice, 

Heard  from  without  a  miserable  voice, 
A   sound    which    seemed    of  all  sad 

things  to  tell, 
As  of  a  lost  soul  crying  out  of  hell. 

Thereat  the  Abbot  paused ;  the  chain 

whereby 
His  thoughts  went  upward  broken  by 

that  cry ; 
And,  looking  from  the  casement,  saw 

below 
A  wretched  woman,  with  gray   hair 

a-flow, 
And  withered  hands  held  up  to  him, 

who  cried 
For  alms  as  one  who  might  not  be 

denied. 

She  cried,  "  For  the  dear  love  of  Him 

who  gave 

His  life  for  ours,  my  child  from  bond- 
age save,  — 
My  beautiful,  brave  first-born,  chained 

with  slaves 
In  the  Moor's  galley,  where  the  sun- 

smit  waves 
Lap  the  white   walls    of  Tunis ! " 

"  What  I  can 
I  give,"  Tritemius  said  :  "  My  prayers." 

—  "  O  man 
Of  God  ! "    she  cried,   for  grief  had 

made  her  bold, 


298 


POEMS   AND    LYRICS. 


u  Mock  me  not  thus  ;  I  ask  not  prayers, 
but  gold. 

Words  will  not  serve  me,  alms  alone 
suffice ; 

Even  while  I  speak  perchance  my  first- 
born dies." 

"  Woman  !  "      Tritemius     answered, 

u  from  our  door 
None  go  unfed  ;  hence  are  we  always 

poor: 

A  single  soldo  is  our  only  store. 
Thou  hast  our  prayers  ;  —  what  can 

we  give  thee  more  ?  " 

"  Give  me,"  she  said,  "  the  silver  can- 
dlesticks 

On  either  side  of  the  great  crucifix. 

God  well  may  spare  them  on  his 
errands  sped, 

Or  he  can  give  you  golden  ones  in- 
stead." 

Then  spake  Tritemius,  "  Even  as  thy 

word, 
Woman,  so  be  it !  (Our  most  gracious 

Lord, 

Who  loveth  mercy  more  than  sacri- 
fice, 

Pardon  me  if  a  human  soul  I  prize 
Above  the  gifts  upon  his  altar  piled !) 
Take  what  thou  askest,  and  redeem 
thy  child." 

But  his  hand  trembled  as  the  holy 

alms 
He  placed  within  the  beggar's  eager 

palms ; 
And  as  she  vanished  down  the  linden 

shade, 
He  bowed  his  head  and  for  forgiveness 

prayed. 

So  the  day  passed,  and  when  the  twi- 
light came 

He  woke  to  find  the  chapel  all  aflame, 

And,  dumb  with  grateful  wonder,  to 
behold 

Upon  the  altar  candlesticks  of  gold! 


THE  EVE  OF  ELECTION. 

FROM  gold  to  gray 

Our  mild  sweet  day 
Of  Indian  Summer  fades  too  soon  ; 

But  tenderly 

Above  the  sea 

Hangs,  white  and  calm,  the  hunter's 
moon. 

In  its  pale  fire, 

The  village  spire 
Shows  like  the  zodiac's  spectral  lance  ; 

The  painted  walls 

Whereon  it  falls 
Transfigured  stand  in  marble  trance! 

O'er  fallen  leaves 

The  west-wind  grieves, 
Yet  comes  a  seed-time  round  again  ; 

And  morn  shall  see 

The  State  sown  free 
With  baleful  tares  or  healthful  grain. 

Along  the  street 

The  shadows  meet 
Of  Destiny,  whose  hands  conceal 

The  moulds  of  fate 

That  shape  the  State, 
And  make  or  mar  the  common  weal. 

Around  I  see 

The  powers  that  be ; 
I  stand  by  Empire's  primal  springs  ; 

And  princes  meet 

In  every  street, 

And    hear   the   tread   of  uncrowned 
kings! 

Hark !  through  the  crowd 

The  laugh  runs  loud, 
Beneath  the  sad,  rebuking  moon. 

God  save  the  land 

A  careless  hand 

May  shake  or   swerve  ere  morrow's 
noon! 

No  jest  is  this  ; 
One  cast  amiss 


THE  OVER-HEART. 


299 


May  blast  the  hope  of  Freedom's  year. 

O,  take  me  where 

Are  hearts  of  prayer, 
And  foreheads  bowed  in  reverent  fear ! 

Not  lightly  fall 

Beyond  recall 
The  written  scrolls  a  breath  can  float ; 

The  crowning  fact, 

The  kingliest  act 
Of  Freedom  is  the  freeman's  vote ! 

For  pearls  that  gem 

A  diadem 
The  diver  in  the  deep  sea  dies  ; 

The  regal  right 

We  boast  to-night 
Is  ours  through  costlier  sacrifice ; 

The  blood  of  Vane, 

His  prison  pain 
Who  traced  the  path  the  Pilgrim  trod, 

And  hers  whose  faith 

Drew  strength  from  death, 
And  prayed  her  Russell  up  to  God! 

Our  hearts  grow  cold, 

We  lightly  hold 
Aright  which  brave  men  died  to  gain  ; 

The  stake,  the  cord, 

The  axe,  the  sword, 
Grim  nurses  at  its  birth  of  pain. 

The  shadow  rend, 
And  o'er  us  bend, 
O    martyrs,    with    your   crowns   and 

palms,  — 

Breathe  through  these  throngs 
Your  battle  songs, 

Your  scaffold  prayers,  and  dungeon 
psalms ! 

Look  from  the  sky, 

Like  God's  great  eye, 
Thou  solemn  moon,  with   searching 
beam  ; 

Till  in  the  sight 

Of  thy  pure  light 
Our  mean  self-seekings  meaner  seem. 


Shame  from  our  hearts 

Unworthy  arts, 
The  fraud  designed,  the  purpose  dark  ; 

And  smite  away 

The  hands  we  lay 
Profanely  on  the  sacred  ark. 

To  party  claims 

And  private  aims, 
Reveal  that  august  face  of  Truth, 

Whereto  are  given 

The  age  of  heaven, 
The  beauty  of  immortal  youth. 

So  shall  our  voice 

Of  sovereign  choice 
Swell  the  deep  bass  of  duty  done, 

And  strike  the  key 

Of  time  to  be, 

When  God  and  man  shall  speak  as 
one! 


THE  OVER-HEART. 

"  For  of  Him,  and  through  Him,  and  to 
Him  are  all  things,  to  whom  be  glory  for- 
ever! "  —  PAUL. 

ABOVE,  below,  in  sky  and  sod, 
In  leaf  and  spar,  in  star  and  man, 
Well  might  the  wise  Athenian  scan 

The  geometric  signs  of  God, 
The  measured  order  of  his  plan. 

And  India's  mystics  sang  aright 
Of  the  One  Life  pervading  all, — 
One  Being's  tidal  rise  and  fall 

In  soul  and  form,  in  sound  and  sight,  — 
Eternal  outflow  and  recall. 

God  is  :  and  man  in  guilt  and  fear 
The  central  fact  of  Nature  owns  ;  — 
Kneels,    trembling,    by    his    altar- 
stones, 

And  darkly  dreams  the  ghastly  smear 
Of  blood  appeases  and  atones. 

Guilt  shapes  the  Terror :  deep  within 
The  human  heart  the  secret  lies 


100 


POEMS   AND    LYRICS. 


Of  all  the  hideous  deities  ; 
And,  painted  on  a  ground  of  sin, 
The  fabled  gods  of  torment  rise! 

And  what   is    He?  —  The  ripe  grain 

nods, 
The    sweet    dews   fall,   the    sweet 

flowers  blow; 
But    darker    signs     his    presence 

show : 
The  earthquake  and   the   storm   are 

God's, 
And  good  and  evil  interflow. 

O  hearts  of  love!     O  souls  that  turn 
Like   sunflowers   to    the   pure  and 

best! 

To  you  the  truth  is  manifest : 
For  they  the  mind  of  Christ  discern 
Who    lean    like    John    upon    his 
breast ! 

In  him  of  whom  the  sibyl  told, 

For  whom  the  prophet's  harp  was 

toned, 
Whose  need  the  sage  and  magian 

owned, 

The  loving  heart  of  God  behold, 
The    hope     for    which     the    ages 
groaned ! 

Fade,  pomp  of  dreadful  imagery    • 
Wherewith  mankind  have  deified 
Their    hate,    and    selfishness,    and 
pride ! 

Let  the  scared  dreamer  wake  to  see 
The  Christ  of  Nazareth  at  his  side ! 

What    doth     that     holy    Guide    re- 
quire ?  — 

No  rite  of  pain,  nor  gift  of  blood, 
But  man  a  kindly  brotherhood, 

Looking,  where  duty  is  desire, 
To  him,  the  beautiful  and  good. 

Gone  be  the  faithlessness  of  fear, 
And  let  the  pitying  heaven's  sweet 

rain 
Wash  out  the  altar's  bloody  stain  ; 


The  law  of  Hatred  disappear, 
The  law  of  Love  alone  remain. 


How  fall  the  idols  false  and  grim! — - 
And  lo!  their  hideous  wreck  above 
The  emblems  of  the  Lamb  and 

Dove! 
Man  turns  from  God,  not  God  from 

him; 

And    guilt,   in   suffering,    whispers 
Love! 

The  world  sits  at  the  feet  of  Christ, 
Unknowing,  blind,  and  unconsoled  ; 
It   yet   shall    touch   his   garment's 
fold, 

And  feel  the  heavenly  Alchemist 
Transform  its  very  dust  to  gold. 

The  theme  befitting  angel  tongues 
Beyond     a     mortal's     scope     has 

grown. 

O  heart  of  mine !  with  reverence  own 
The  fulness  which  to  it  belongs, 
And    trust   the   unknown   for   the 
known. 


IN  REMEMBRANCE  OF  JO- 
SEPH STURGE. 

IN   the   fair  land  o'erwatched  by  Is- 

chia's  mountains, 
Across  the  charmed  bay 
Whose  blue  waves  keep  with  Capri's 

silver  fountains 
Perpetual  holiday, 

A    king    lies    dead,   his   wafer   duly 

eaten, 

His  gold-bought  masses  given  ; 
And  Rome's  great  altar  smokes  with 

gums  to  sweeten 
Her  foulest  gift  to  Heaven. 

And   while    all    Naples    thrills   with 

mute  thanksgiving, 
The  court  of  England's  queen 


IN   REMEMBRANCE  OF  JOSEPH   STURGE. 


301 


For  the   dead   monster  so   abhorred 

while  living 
In  mourning  garb  is  seen. 

With  a  true  sorrow  God  rebukes  that 

feigning ; 

By  lone  Edgbaston's  side 
Stands  a  great  city  -in  the  sky's  sad 

raining, 
Bare-headed  and  wet-eyed ! 

Silent   for  once   the  restless   hive  of 

labor, 

Save  the  low  funeral  tread, 
Or  voice  of  craftsman  whispering  to 

his  neighbor 
The  good  deeds  of  the  dead. 

For  him  no    minster's  chant   of  the 

immortals 

Rose  from  the  lips  of  sin ; 
No    mitred    priest    swung   back   the 

heavenly  portals 
To  let  the  white  soul  in. 

But  Age  and  Sickness    framed  their 

tearful  faces 

In  the  low  hovel's  door, 
And   prayers  went   up   from   all   the 

dark  by-places 
And  Ghettos  of  the  poor. 

The    pallid     toiler    and     the    negro 

chattel, 

The  vagrant  of  the  street, 
The  human  dice  wherewith  in  games 

of  battle 
The  lords  of  earth  compete, 

Touched  with  a  grief  that  needs  no 

outward  draping, 
All  swelled  the  long  lament, 
Of  grateful  hearts,  instead  of  marble, 

shaping 
His  viewless  monument ! 

For  never  yet,  with  ritual  pomp  and 

splendor, 
In  the  long  heretofore, 


A  heart  more  loyal,  warm,  and  true, 

and  tender, 
Has  England's  turf  closed  o'er. 

And  if  there  fell  from  out  her  grand 

old  steeples 

No  crash  of  brazen  wail, 
The    murmurous    woe    of   kindreds, 

tongues,  and  peoples 
Swept  in  on  every  gale. 

It    came    from     Holstein's    birchen- 
belted  meadows, 
And  from  the  tropic  calms 
Of    Indian   islands    in   the   sun-smit 

shadows 
Of  Occidental  palms  ; 

From   the   locked  roadsteads  of  the 

Bothnian  peasants, 
And  harbors  of  the  Finn, 
Where  war's   worn   victims    saw   his 

gentle  presence 
Come  sailing,  Christ-like,  in, 

To  seek   the   lost,  to    build   the  old 

waste  places, 
To  link  the  hostile  shores 
Of  severing  seas,  and  sow  with  Eng- 
land's daisies 
The  moss  of  Finland's  moors. 

Thanks  for  the  good  man's  beautiful 

example, 

Who  in  the  vilest  saw 
Some    sacred    crypt    or    altar   of    a 

temple 
Still  vocal  with  God's  law ; 

And  heard  with  tender  ear  the  spirit 

sighing 

As  from  its  prison  cell, 
Praying  for  pity,  like  the  mournful  cry- 
ing 
Of  Jonah  out  of  hell. 

Not  his  the  golden  pen's  or  lip's  per- 
suasion, 
But  a  fine  sense  of  right, 


302 


POEMS   AND   LYRICS. 


And  Truth's  directness,  meeting  each 

occasion 
Straight  as  a  line  of  light. 

His    faith    and   works,   like   streams 

that  intermingle, 
In  the  same  channel  ran : 
The  crystal  clearness  of  an  eye  kept 

single 
Shamed  all  the  frauds  of  man. 

The  very  gentlest  of  all   human  na- 
tures 

He  joined  to  courage  strong, 
And  love  outreaching  unto  all  God's 

creatures 
With  sturdy  hate  of  wrong. 

Tender   as  woman ;    manliness    and 

meekness 

In  him  were  so  allied 
That   they  who  judged    him    by  his 

strength  or  weakness 
Saw  but  a  single  side. 

Men  failed,  betrayed  him,  but  his  zeal 

seemed  nourished 
~&y  failure  and  by  fall ; 
Still  a  large  faith  in  human-kind  he 

cherished, 
And  in  God's  love  for  all. 

And  now  he  rests  :  his  greatness  and 

his  sweetness 

No  more  shall  seem  at  strife  ; 
And   death    has   moulded   into  calm 

completeness 
The  statue  of  his  life. 

Where  the  dews  glisten  and  the  song- 
birds warble, 
His  dust  to  dust  is  laid, 
In  Nature's  keeping,  with  no  pomp  of 

marble 
To  shame  his  modest  shade. 

The  forges  glow,  the  hammers  all  are 

ringing ; 
Beneath  its  smoky  vale, 


Hard  by,  the  city  of  his  love  is  swing- 
ing 
Its  clamorous  iron  flail. 

But  round  his  grave  are  quietude  and 
beauty, 

And  the  sweet  heaven  above,  — 
The  fitting  symbols  of  a  life  of  duty 

Transfigured  into  love! 


TRINITAS. 

AT  morn  I  prayed,  "  I  fain  would  see 
How   Three   are   One,   and    One    is 

Three  ; 
Read  the  dark  riddle  unto  me." 

I  wandered  forth,  the  sun  and  air 
I  saw  bestowed  with  equal  care 
On  good  and  evil,  foul  and  fair. 

No  partial  favor  dropped  the  rain  ;  — 
Alike  the  righteous  and  profane 
Rejoiced  above  their  heading  grain. 

And  my  heart  murmured,  "  Is  it  meet 
That   blindfold   Nature  thus    should 

treat 
With     equal    hand    the     tares    and 

wheat?" 

A     presence     melted     through     my 

mood, — 

A  warmth,  a  light,  a  sense  of  good, 
Like  sunshine  through  a  winter  wood. 

I  saw  that  presence,  mailed  complete 
In    her    white    innocence,    pause    to 

greet 
A  fallen  sister  of  the  street. 

Upon  her  bosom  snowy  pure 
The  lost  one  clung,  as  if  secure 
From  inward  guilt  or  outward  lure. 

"  Beware! "  I  said  ;  "  in  this  I  see 
No  gain  to  her,  but  loss  to  thee : 
Who    touches     pitch     defiled     must 
be." 


THE   OLD   BURYING-GROUND. 


303 


I  passed  the  haunts  of  shame  and  sin, 
And  a  voice  whispered,  '•  Who  therein 
Shall    these   lost   souls    to    Heaven's 
peace  win? 

"Who  there  shall   hope  and  health 

dispense, 

And  lift  the  ladder  up  from  thence 
Whose  rounds   are  prayers  of  peni- 
tence?" 

I  said,  u  No  higher  life  they  know  ; 
These  earth-worms  love  to  have  it  so. 
Who  stoops  to   raise  them  sinks  as 
low." 

That  night  with  painful  care  I  read 
What  Hippo's  saint  and  Calvin  said, — 
The  living  seeking  to  the  dead! 

In  vain  I  turned,  in  weary  quest, 
Old   pages,  where    (God  give  them 

rest!) 
The  poor  creed-mongers  dreamed  and 

guessed. 

And  still  I  prayed,  "  Lord,  let  me  see 
How   Three   are   One,    and   One    is 

Three  ; 
Read  the  dark  riddle  unto  me! " 

Then   something   whispered,    "  Dost 

thou  pray 

For  what  thou  hast?     This  very  day 
The  Holy  Three  have  crossed  thy  way. 

"Did  not  the  gifts  of  sun  and  air 

To  good  and  ill  alike  declare 

The  all-compassionate  Father's  care? 

"  In  the  white   soul  that  stooped  to 

raise 

The  lost  one  from  her  evil  ways, 
Thou  saw'st  the  Christ,  whom  angels 

praise! 

u  A  bodiless  Divinity, 

The   still  small  Voice  that  spake  to 

thee 
Was  the  Holy  Spirit's  mystery! 


"  O  blind  of  sight,  of  faith  how  small! 
Father,  and  Son,  and  Holy  Call ;  — 
This  day  thou  hast  denied  them  all! 

"  Revealed  in  love  and  sacrifice, 
The  Holiest  passed  before  thine  eyes, 
One  and  the  same,  in  threefold  guise. 

"  The  equal  Father  in  rain  and  sun, 
His  Christ  in  the  good  to  evil  done, 
His  Voice  in  thy  soul ; — and  theThree 
are  One!  " 

I  shut  my  grave  Aquinas  fast ; 
The  monkish  gloss  of  ages  past, 
The  schoolman's  creed  aside  I  cast. 

And  my  heart  answered,  "  Lord,  I  see 
How  Three  are  One,  and  One  is  Three  ; 
Thy  riddle  hath  been  read  to  me !  " 


THE  OLD  BURYING-GROUND. 

OUR  vales  are  sweet  with  fern  and  rose, 
Our  hills  are  maple-crowned  ; 

But  not  from  them  our  fathers  chose 
The  village  burying-ground. 

The  dreariest  spot  in  all  the  land 

To  Death  they  set  apart ; 
With  scanty  grace  from  Nature's  hand, 

And  none  from  that  of  Art. 

A  winding  wall  of  mossy  stone, 
Frost-flung  and  broken,  lines 

A  lonesome  acre  thinly  grown 
With  grass  and  wandering  vines. 

Without  the  wall  a  birch-tree  shows 
Its  drooped  and  tasselled  head  ; 

Within,  a  stag-horned  sumach  grows, 
Fern-leafed,  with  spikes  of  red. 

There,  sheep  that  graze  the  neighbor- 
ing plain 

Like  white  ghosts  come  and  go. 
The  farm-horse  drags  his  fetlock  chain, 

The  cow-bell  tinkles  slow. 


304 


POEMS   AND    LYRICS. 


Low  moans  the  river  from  its  bed, 

The  distant  pines  reply  ; 
Like   mourners    shrinking    from    the 
dead, 

They  stand  apart  and  sigh. 

Unshaded  smites  the  summer  sun, 
Unchecked  the  winter  blast ; 

The  school-girl  learns   the  place  to 

shun, 
With  glances  backward  cast. 

For  thus  our  fathers  testified,  — 
That  he  might  read  who  ran,  — 

The  emptiness  of  human  pride, 
The  nothingness  of  man. 

They  dared  not  plant  the  grave  with 
flowers, 

Nor  dress  the  funeral  sod, 
Where,  with  a  love  as  deep  as  ours, 

They  left  their  dead  with  God. 

The  hard  and  thorny  path  they  kept 
From  beauty  turned  aside  ; 

Nor  missed  they  over  those  who  slept 
The  grace  to  life  denied. 

Yet  still  the   wilding   flowers  would 
blow, 

The  golden  leaves  would  fall, 
The  seasons  come,  the  seasons  go, 

And  God  be  good  to  all. 

Above  the  graves  the  blackberry  hung 
In  bloom  and  green  its  wreath, 

And  harebells  swung  as  if  they  rung 
The  chimes  of  peace  beneath. 

The  beauty  Nature  loves  to  share, 

The  gifts  she  hath  for  all, 
The  common  light,  the  common  air, 

O'ercrept  the  graveyard's  wall. 

It  knew  the  glow  'of  eventide, 
The  sunrise  and  the  noon, 

And  glorified  and  sanctified 
It  slept  beneath  the  moon. 


With  flowers  or  snow-flakes  for  its  sod, 

Around  the  seasons  ran, 
And  evermore  the  love  of  God 

Rebuked  the  fear  of  man. 

We  dwell  with  fears  on  either  hand, 

Within  a  daily  strife, 
And  spectral  problems  waiting  stand 

Before  the  gates  of  life. 

The  doubts  we  vainly  seek  to  solve, 
The  truths  we  know,  are  one ; 

The  known  and   nameless    stars  re- 
volve 
Around  the  Central  Sun. 

And  if  we  reap  as  we  have  sown, 
And  take  the  dole  we  deal, 

The  law  of  pain  is  love  alone, 
The  wounding  is  to  heal. 

Unharmed  from  change  to  change  we 
glide, 

We  fall  as  in  our  dreams  ; 
The  far-off  terror  at  our  side 

A  smiling  angel  seems. 

Secure  on  God's  all-tender  heart 
Alike  rest  great  and  small ; 

Why  fear  to  lose  our  little  part, 
When  he  is  pledged  for  all? 

O  fearful  heart  and  troubled  brain ! 

Take  hope  and  strength  from  this, — 
That  Nature  never  hints  in  vain, 

Nor  prophesies  amiss. 

Her  wild  birds  sing  the  same  sweet 
stave, 

Her  lights  and  airs  are  given 
Alike  to  playground  and  the  grave  ; 

And  over  both  is  Heaven. 


THE    PIPES    AT    LUCKNOW. 

PIPES  of  the  misty  moorlands, 
Voice  of  the  glens  and  hills  ; 

The  droning  of  the  torrents, 
The  treble  of  the  rills ! 


MY   PSALM. 


305 


Not  the  braes  of  broom  and  heather, 
Nor  the  mountains  dark  with  rain, 

Nor  maiden  bovver,  nor  border  tower, 
Have  heard  your  sweetest  strain ! 

Dear  to  the  Lowland  reaper, 

And  plaided  mountaineer, — 
To  the  cottage  and  the  castle 

The  Scottish  pipes  are  dear ;  — 
Sweet  sounds  the  ancient  pibroch 

O'er  mountain,  loch,  and  glade  ; 
But  the  sweetest  of  all  music 

The  Pipes  at  Lucknow  played. 

Day  by  day  the  Indian  tiger 

Louder  yelled,  and  nearer  crept ; 
Round  and  round  the  jungle-serpent 

Near  and  nearer  circles  swept. 
"  Pray  for  rescue,  wives  and  mothers,  — 

Pray  to-day!  "  the  soldier  said  ; 
"To-morrow,  death's  between  us 

And    the    wrong    and    shame   we 
dread." 

O,  they  listened,  looked,  and  waited, 

Till  their  hope  became  despair ; 
And  the  sobs  of  low  bewailing 

Filled  the  pauses  of  their  prayer. 
Then  up  spake  a  Scottish  maiden, 

With  her  ear  unto  the  ground  : 
"Dinna  ye  hear  it?  —  dinna  ye  hear 
it? 

The  pipes  o'  Havelock  sound ! " 

Hushed  the  wounded  man  his  groan- 
ing; 

Hushed  the  wife  her  little  ones  ; 
Alone  they  heard  the  drum-roll 

And  the  roar  of  Sepoy  guns. 
But  to  sounds  of  home  and  childhood 

The  Highland  ear  was  true  ;  — 
As  her  mother's  cradle-crooning 

The  mountain  pipes  she  knew. 

Like  the  march  of  soundless  music 
Through  the  vision  of  the  seer, 

More  of  feeling  than  of  hearing, 
Of  the  heart  than  of  the  ear, 

She  knew  the  droning  pibroch, 
She  knew  the  Campbell's  call : 


"  Hark !  hear  ye  no'  MacGregor's,  — 
The  grandest  o'  them  all!  " 

O,  they  listened,  dumb  and  breathless, 

And  they  caught  the  sound  at  last ; 
Faint  and  far  beyond  the  Goomtee 

Rose  and  fell  the  pipers  blast ! 
Then  a  burst  of  wild  thanksgiving 

Mingled  woman's  voice  and  man's; 
"  God    be    praised !  —  the    March    of 
Havelock ! 

The  piping  of  the  clans!  " 

Louder,  nearer,  fierce  as  vengeance, 

Sharp  and  shrill  as  swords  at  strife, 
Came  the  wild  MacGregor's  clan-call, 

Stinging  all  the  air  to  life. 
But  when  the  far-off  dust-cloud 

To  plaided  legions  grew, 
Full  tenderly  and  blithesomely 

The  pipes  of  rescue  blew! 

Round  the  silver  domes  of  Lucknow, 

Moslem  mosque  and  Pagan  shrine, 
Breathed  the  air  to  Britons  dearest, 

The  air  of  Auld  Lang  Syne. 
O'er  the  cruel  roll  of  war-drums 

Rose    that     sweet    and    homelike 

strain  ; 
And  the  tartan  clove  the  turban, 

As  the  Goomtee  cleaves  the  plain. 

Dear  to  the  corn-land  reaper 

And  plaided  mountaineer,  — 
To  the  cottage  and  the  castle 

The  piper's  song  is  dear. 
Sweet  sounds  the  Gaelic  pibroch 

O'er  mountain,  glen,  and  glade  ; 
But  the  sweetest  of  all  music 

The  Pipes  at  Lucknow  played! 


MY   PSALM. 

I  MOURN  no  more  my  vanished  years  : 

Beneath  a  tender  rain, 
An  April  rain  of  smiles  and  tears, 

My  heart  is  young  again. 


POEMS   AND   LYRICS. 


The  west-winds   blow,   and,  singing 
low, 

I  hear  the  glad  streams  run  ; 
The  windows  of  my  soul  I  throw 

Wide  open  to  the  sun. 

No  longer  forward  nor  behind 

I  look  in  hope  or  fear ; 
But,  grateful,  take  the  good  I  find, 

The  best  of  now  and  here. 

I  plough  no  more  a  desert  land, 
To  harvest  weed  and  tare  ; 

The    manna    dropping    from    God?s 

hand 
Rebukes  my  painful  care. 

I  break  my  pilgrim  staff,  —  I  lay 

Aside  the  toiling  oar ; 
The  angel  sought  so  far  away 

I  welcome  at  my  door. 

The  airs  of  spring  may  never  play 
Among  the  ripening  corn, 

Nor  freshness  of  the  flowers  of  May 
Blow  through  the  autumn  morn  ; 

Yet  shall  the  blue-eyed  gentian  look 
Through  fringe'd  lids  to  heaven, 

And  the  pale  aster  in  the  brook 
Shall  see  its  image  given  ;  — 

The  woods  shall  wear  their  robes  of 
praise, 

The  south-wind  softly  sigh, 
And  sweet,  calm  days  in  golden  haze 

Melt  down  the  amber  sky. 

Not  less  shall  manly  deed  and  word 
Rebuke  an  age  of  wrong ; 

The  graven  flowers  that  wreathe  the 

sword 
Make  not  the  blade  less  strong. 

But    smiting    hands    shall    learn   to 
heal,— 

To  build  as  to  destroy ; 
Nor  less  my  heart  for  others  feel 

That  I  the  more  enjoy. 


All  as  God  wills,  who  wisely  heeds 

To  give  or  to  withhold, 
And  knoweth  more  of  all  my  needs 

Than  all  my  prayers  have  told ! 

Enough  that  blessings  undeserved 

Have  marked  my  erring  track  ;  — 
That     wheresoe'er     my     feet     have 

swerved, 
His 
back ;  — 


chastening      turned 


That  more  and  more  a  Providence 

Of  love  is  understood, 
Making  the  springs  of  time  and  sense 

Sweet  with  eternal  good  ;  — 

That  death  seems  but  a  covered  way 
Which  opens  into  light, 

Wherein  no  blinded  child  can  stray 
Beyond  the  Father's  sight ;  — 

That  care  and  trial  seem  at  last, 
Through  Memory's  sunset  air, 

Like  mountain-ranges  overpast, 
In  purple  distance  fair;  — 

That  all  the  jarring  notes  of  life 
Seem  blending  in  a  psalm, 

And  all  the  angles  of  its  strife 
Slow  rounding  into  calm.   . 

And  so  the  shadows  fall  apart, 
And  so  the  west-winds  play ; 

And  all  the  windows  of  my  heart 
I  open  to  the  day. 


LE   MARAIS   DU   CYGNE. 

A  BLUSH  as  of  roses 

Where  rose  never  grew ! 
Great  drops  on  the  bunch -grass, 

But  not  of  the  dew ! 
A  taint  in  the  sweet  air 

For  wild  bees  to  shun! 
A  stain  that  shall  never 

Bleach  out  in  the  sun ! 


;THE   ROCK"   IN   EL  GHOR. 


307 


Back,  steed  of  the  prairies ! 

Sweet  song-bird,  fly  back! 
Wheel  hither,  bald  vulture! 

Gray  wolf,  call  thy  pack ! 
The  foul  human  vultures 

Have  feasted  and  fled ; 
The  wolves  of  the  Border 

Have  crept  from  the  dead. 

From  the  hearths  of  their  cabins, 

The  fields  of  their  corn, 
Unwarned  and  unweaponed, 

The  victims  were  torn, — 
By  the  whirlwind  of  murder 

Swooped  up  and  swept  on 
To  the  low,  reedy  fen-lands, 

The  Marsh  of  the  Swan. 

With  a  vain  plea  for  mercy 

No  stout  knee  was  crooked  ; 
In  the  mouths  of  the  rifles 

Right  manly  they  looked. 
How  paled  the  May  sunshine, 

O  Marais  du  Cygne ! 
On  death  for  the  strong  life, 

On  red  grass  for  green! 

In  the  homes  of  their  rearing, 

Yet  warm  with  their  lives, 
Ye  wait  the  dead  only, 

Poor  children  and  wives ! 
Put  out  the  red  forge-fire, 

The  smith  shall  not  come ; 
Unyoke  the  brown  oxen, 

The  ploughman  lies  dumb. 

Wind  slow  from  the  Swan's  Marsh, 

O  dreary  death-train, 
With  pressed  lips  as  bloodless 

As  lips  of  the  slain ! 
Kiss  down  the  young  eyelids, 

Smooth  down  the  gray  hairs  ; 
Let  tears  quench  the  curses 

That  burn  through  your  prayers. 

Strong  men  of  the  prairies, 

Mourn  bitter  and  wild ! 
Wail,  desolate  woman ! 

Weep,  fatherless  child! 


But  the  grain  of  God  springs  up 

From  ashes  beneath, 
And  the  crown  of  his  harvest 

Is  life  out  of  death. 

Not  in  vain  on  the  dial 

The  shade  moves  along, 
To  point  the  great  contrasts 

Of  right  and  of  wrong  : 
Free  homes  and  free  altars, 

Free  prairie  and  flood, — 
The  reeds  of  the  Swan's  Marsh, 

Whose  bloom  is  of  blood! 

On  the  lintels  of  Kansas 

That  blood  shall  not  dry ; 
Henceforth  the  Bad  Angel 

Shall  harmless  go  by  ; 
Henceforth  to  the  sunset, 

Unchecked  on  her  way, 
Shall  Liberty  follow 

The  march  of  the  day. 


"THE   ROCK"    IN   EL   GHOR. 

DEAD  Petra  in  her  hill-tomb  sleeps, 
Her  stones  of  emptiness  remain  ; 

Around  her  sculptured  mystery  sweeps 
The  lonely  waste  of  Edom's  plain. 

From  the  doomed  dwellers  in  the  cleft 
The  bow  of  vengeance  turns  not 
back; 

Of  all  her  myriads  none  are  left 
Along  the  Wady  Mousa's  track. 

Clear  in  the  hot  Arabian  day 

Her  arches  spring,  her  statues  climb  ; 

Unchanged,  the  graven  wonders  pay 
No  tribute  to  the  spoiler,  Time ! 

Unchanged  the  awful  lithograph 
Of  power  and  glory  undertrod, — 

Of  nations  scattered  like  the  chaff 
Blown  from  the  threshing-floor  of 
God. 

Yet  shall  the  thoughtful  stranger  turn 
From  Petra ""s  gates,  with  deeper  awe 


3o8 


POEMS  AND   LYRICS. 


To  mark  afar  the  burial  urn 
Of  Aaron  on  the  cliffs  of  Hor ; 

And  where  upon  its  ancient  guard 
Thy    Rock,  El   Ghor,  is  standing 

yet,  - 

Looks  from  its  turrets  desertward, 
And  keeps  the  watch  that  God  has 
set. 

The  same  as  when  in  thunders  loud 
It  heard  the  voice  of  God  to  man,  — 

As  when  it  saw  in  fire  and  cloud 
The  angels  walk  in  Israel's  van! 

Or  when  from  Ezion-Geber's  way 
It  saw  the  long  procession  file, 

And  heard  the  Hebrew  timbrels  play 
The  music  of  the  lordly  Nile  ; 

Or  saw  the  tabernacle  pause, 

Cloud-bound,  by  Kadesh  Barnea's 
wells, 

While  Moses  graved  the  sacred  laws, 
And  Aaron  swung  his  golden  bells. 

Rock  of  the  desert,  prophet-sung ! 

How  grew   its    shadowing   pile   at 

length, 
A  symbol,  in  the  Hebrew  tongue, 

Of  God's  eternal  love  and  strength. 

On  lip  of  bard  and  scroll  of  seer, 
From  age  to  age  went   down   the 

name, 

Until  the  Shiloh's  promised  year, 
And    Christ,    the   Rock   of    Ages, 
came ! 

The  path  of  life  we  walk  to-day 

Is  strange  as  that  the  Hebrews  trod  ; 
We    need    the    shadowing   rock,   as 

they,  — 

We  need,  like  them,  the  guides  of 
God. 

God  send  his  angels,  Cloud  and  Fire, 
To  lead  us  o'er  the  desert  sand ! 

God  give  our  hearts  their  long  desire, 
His  shadow  in  a  weary  land! 


ON   A   PRAYER-BOOK, 

WITH  ITS  FRONTISPIECE,  ARY  SCHEF- 
FER'S  "  CHRISTUS  CONSOLATOR," 
AMERICANIZED  BY  THE  OMISSION 
OF  THE  BLACK  MAN. 

O  ARY    SCHEFFER  !    when    beneath 

thine  eye, 
Touched  with  the  light  that  cometh 

from  above, 
Grew  the  sweet  picture  of  the  dear 

Lord's  love, 
No  dream  hadst  thou  that  Christian 

hands  would  tear 
Therefrom   the    token    of  his    equal 

care, 
And  make  thy  symbol  of  his  truth 

a  lie! 
The  poor,  dumb  slave  whose  shackles 

fall  away 
In  his  compassionate  gaze,  grubbed 

smoothly  out, 

To  mar  no  more  the  exercise  de- 
vout 
Of  sleek  oppression  kneeling  down  to 

pray 
Where    the    great    oriel    stains    the 

Sabbath  day! 

Let  whoso  can  before  such  praying- 
books 
Kneel  on  his  velvet  cushion ;  I,  for 

one, 
Would  sooner  bow,  a  Parsee,  to  the 

sun, 
Or  tend  a  prayer-wheel  in  Thibetan 

brooks, 

Or  beat  a  drum  on  Yedo's  temple- 
floor. 
No    falser    idol    man    has    bowed 

before, 
In   Indian   groves  or  islands  of  the 

sea, 
Than  that  which  through  thequaint- 

carved  Gothic  door 
Looks  forth, — a  Church  without  hu- 
manity ! 

Patron  of  pride,  and  prejudice,  and 
wrong,  — 


ON   A   PRAYER-BOOK. 


3°9 


The  rich  man's  charm  and  fetish  of 

the  strong, 
The   Eternal  Fulness  meted,  clipped, 

and  shorn, 
The   seamless   robe    of  equal  mercy 

torn, 
The    dear   Christ    hidden    from    his 

kindred  flesh, 
And,    in    his    poor    ones,    crucified 

afresh ! 
Better   the   simple    Lama   scattering 

wide, 
Where  sweeps  the  storm  Alechan's 

steppes  along, 
His    paper    horses    for    the    lost   to 

ride, 
And     wearying     Buddha     with     his 

prayers  to  make 
The  figures  living  for  the  traveller's 

sake, 
Than  he  who  hopes  with  cheap  praise 

to  beguile 
The  ear  of  God,  dishonoring  man  the 

while ; 
Who  dreams  the  pearl  gate's  hinges, 

rusty  grown, 
Are  moved  by  flattery's  oil  of  tongue 

alone  ; 
That    in    the    scale    Eternal    Justice 

bears 
The  generous  deed  weighs  less  than 

selfish  prayers, 

And  words  intoned  with  graceful  unc- 
tion move 
The  Eternal  Goodness  more  than  lives 

of  truth  and  love. 
Alas,    the    Church!  —  The   reverend 

head  of  Jay, 
Enhaloed  with  its  saintly  silvered 

hair, 
Adorns  no  more  the  places  of  her 

prayer ; 
And   brave   young   Tyng,    too   early 

called  away, 
Troubles  the  Haman  of  her  courts 

no  more 

Like  the  just  Hebrew  at  the  Assyri- 
an's door ; 
And  her  sweet  ritual,  beautiful  but 

dead 


As  the  dry  husk  from  which  the 
grain  is  shed, 

And  holy  hymns  from  which   the 
life  devout 

Of  saints  and  martyrs  has  wellnigh 
gone  out, 

Like  candles  dying  in  exhausted 
air, 

For  Sabbath  use  in  measured  grists 
are  ground ; 

And,  ever  while  the  spiritual  mill  goes 
round, 

Between  the  upper  and  the  nether 
stones, 

Unseen,    unheard,     the     wretched 

bondman  groans, 

And  urges  his  vain  plea,  prayer-smoth- 
ered, anthem-drowned! 
O  heart  of  mine,  keep  patience  !  — 
Looking  forth, 

As  from  the  Mount  of  Vision,  I  be- 
hold, 

Pure,  just,  and  free,  the   Church   of 
Christ  on  earth, — 

The  martyr's  dream,  the  golden  age 

foretold ! 

And  found,  at  last,  the  mystic  Graal  I 
see, 

Brimmed  with  His    blessing,    pass 
from  lip  to  lip 

In  sacred  pledge  of  human  fellow- 
ship; 

And  over  ail  the  songs  of  angels 
hear,  — 

Songs  of  the  love  that  casteth  out 
all  fear,  — 

Songs  of  the   Gospel  of  Human- 
ity! 

Lo !  in  the  midst,  with  the  same  look 
he  wore, 

Healing  and  blessing  on  Genesaret's 
shore, 

Folding  together,  with  the  all-tender 

might 

Of  his  great  love,  the  dark  hands  and 
the  white, 

Stands  the  Consoler,  soothing  every 

pain, 

Making  all  burdens  light,  and  break- 
ing every  chain. 


3io 


POEMS   AND   LYRICS. 


TO  J.  T.  F. 

ON   A   BLANK   LEAF   OF  "  POEMS 
PRINTED,  NOT  PUBLISHED." 

WELL  thought!  who  would  not  rather 

hear 
The  songs  to  Love   and   Friendship 

sung 
Than  those  which  move  the  stranger's 

tongue, 
And  feed  his  unselected  ear? 

Our  social  joys  are  more  than  fame ; 
Life  withers  in  the  public  look. 
Why  mount  the  pillory  of  a  book, 
Or  barter  comfort  for  a  name? 

Who  in  a  house  of  glass  would  dwell, 
With  curious  eyes  at  every  pane  ? 
To  ring  him  in  and  out  again, 
Who  wants  the  public  crier's  bell? 

To  see  the  angel  in  one's  way, 
Who  waits  to  play  the  ass's  part,  — 
Bear  on  his  back  the  wizard  Art, 
And  in  his  service  speak  or  bray? 

And  who  his  manly  locks  would  shave, 
And  quench  the  eyes  of  common  sense, 
To  share  the  noisy  recompense 
That  mocked  the  shorn  and  blinded 

slave? 

The  heart  has  needs  beyond  the  head, 

And,  starving  in  the  plenitude 

Of  strange  gifts,  craves  its   common 

food,  — 
Our  human  nature's  daily  bread. 

We  are  but  men  :   no  gods  are  we, 
To  sit  in  mid-heaven,  cold  and  bleak, 
Each  separate,  on  his  painful  peak, 
Thin-cloaked  in  self-complacency! 

Better  his  lot  whose  axe  is  swung 
In  Wartburg  woods,  or  that  poor  ghTs 
Who  by  the  Ilm  her  spindle  whirls 
And  sings  the  songs  that  Luther  sung, 


Than  his  who,  old,  and  cold,  and  vain, 
At  Weimar  sat,  a  demigod, 
And  bowed  with  Jove's  imperial  nod 
His  votaries  in  and  out  again! 

Ply,  Vanity,  thy  winged  feet ! 
Ambition,  hew  thy  rocky  stair! 
Who  envies  him  who  feeds  on  air 
The  icy  splendor  of  his  seat? 

I  see  your  Alps,  above  me,  cut 
The  dark,  cold  sky ;  and  dim  and  lone 
I  see  ye  sitting,  • — stone  on  stone,  — 
With  human  senses  dulled  and  shut. 

I  could  not  reach  you,  if  I  would, 
Nor  sit  among  your  cloudy  shapes  ; 
And  (spare  the  fable  of  the  grapes 
And  fox)  I  would  not  if  I  could. 

Keep  to  your  lofty  pedestals ! 
The  safer  plain  below  I  choose  : 
Who  never  wins  can  rarely  lose, 
Who  never  climbs  as  rarely  falls. 

Let  such  as  love  the  eagle's  scream 
Divide  with  him  his  home  of  ice  : 
For  me  shall  gentler  notes  suffice, — 
The  valley-song  of  bird  and  stream  ; 

The  pastoral  bleat,  the  drone  of  bees, 
The  flail-beat  chiming  far  away, 
The  cattle-low,  at  shut  of  day, 
The  voice  of  God  in  leaf  and  breeze ! 

Then  lend  thy  hand,  my  wiser  friend, 
And  help  me  to  the  vales  below, 
(In  truth,  I  have  not  far  to  go,) 
Where  sweet  with  flowers  the  fields 
extend. 


THE  PALM-TREE. 

Is  it  the  palm,  the  cocoa-palm, 

On  the  Indian  Sea,  by  the  isles  of 

balm? 
Or  is  it  a  ship  in  the  breezeless  calm? 


LINES. 


A  ship  whose  keel  is  of  palm  beneath, 
Whose  ribs  of  palm  have  a  palm-bark 

sheath, 
And  a  rudder  of  palm  it  steereth  with. 

Branches  of  palm  are  its  spars  and 

rails, 

Fibres  of  palm  are  its  woven  sails. 
And    the  rope  is  of  palm   that  idly 

trails! 

What  does  the  good   ship   bear  so 

well? 

The  cocoa-nut  with  its  stony  shell, 
And  the  milky  sap  of  its  inner  cell. 

What  are  its  jars,  so  smooth  and  fine, 
But  hollowed  nuts,  filled  with  oil  and 

wine, 
And  the  cabbage  that  ripens  under  the 

Line? 

Who  smokes  his  nargileh,  cool  and 

calm  ? 
The  master,  whose  cunning  and  skill 

could  charm 
Cargo  and   ship  from  the  bounteous 

palm. 

In  the  cabin  he  sits  on  a  palm-mat 

soft, 
From  a  beaker  of  palm  his  drink  is 

quaffed, 
And  a  palm-thatch  shields  from  the 

sun  aloft ! 

His  dress  is  woven  of  palmy  strands, 
And  he  holds  a  palm-leaf  scroll  in  his 

hands, 

Traced  with  the  Prophet's  wise  com- 
mands ! 

The  turban  folded  about  his  head 
Was  daintily  wrought   of  the  palm- 
leaf  braid, 

And  the  fan  that  cools  him  of  palm 
was  made. 

Of  threads  of  palm  was   the  carpet 
spun 


Whereon  he  kneels  when  the  day  is 

done, 
And    the    foreheads     of    Islam    are 

bowed  as  one! 

To  him  the  palm  is  a  gift  divine, 
Wherein  all  uses  of  man  combine, — 
House,  and   raiment,  and   food,  and 


And,  in  the  hour  of  his  great  release, 
His    need   of    the    palm   shall    only 

cease 
With  the  shroud  wherein  he  lieth  in 

peace. 

"Allah  il  Allah!  "  he  sings  his  psalm, 
On  the    Indian  Sea,  by  the   isles  of 

balm  ; 
"  Thanks    to   Allah   who,  gives    the 

palm! " 


LINES, 

READ  AT  THE  BOSTON  CELEBRA- 
TION OF  THE  HUNDREDTH  AN- 
NIVERSARY OF  THE  BIRTH  OF 
ROBERT  BURNS,  25TH  1ST  MO., 
I859. 

How  sweetly  come  the  holy  psalms 

From  saints  and  martyrs  down. 
The  waving  of  triumphal  palms 

Above  the  thorny  crown ! 
The     choral     praise,     the     chanted 
prayers 

From  harps  by  angels  strung, 
The     hunted     Cameron's     mountain 
airs, 

The  hymns  that  Luther  sung! 

Yet,  jarring  not  the  heavenly  notes, 

The  sounds  of  earth  are  heard, 
As  through  the  open  minster  floats 

The  song  of  breeze  and  bird! 
Not  less  the  wonder  of  the  sky 

That  daisies  bloom  below ; 
The  brook  sings  on,  though  loud  and 
high 

The  cloudy  organs  blow! 


312 


POEMS  AND   LYRICS. 


And,  if  the  tender  ear  be  jarred 

That,  haply,  hears  by  turns 
The  saintly  harp  of  Olney's  bard, 

The  pastoral  pipe  of  Burns, 
No  discord  mars  His  perfect  plan 

Who  gave  them  both  a  tongue ; 
For  he  who  sings  the  love  of  man 

The  love  of  God  hath  sung! 

To-day  be  every  fault  forgiven 

Of  him  in  whom  we  joy ! 
We   take,  with   thanks,  the  gold  of 
Heaven 

And  leave  the  earth's  alloy. 
Be  ours  his  music  as  of  spring, 

His  sweetness  as  of  flowers, 
The  songs   the   bard    himself  might 
sing 

In  holier  ears  than  ours. 

Sweet  airs  of  love  and  home,  the  hum 

Of  household  melodies, 
Come  singing,  as  the  robins  come 

To  sing  in  door-yard  trees. 
And,   heart    to    heart,    two    nations 
lean, 

No  rival  wreaths  to  twine, 
But  blending  in  eternal  green 

The  holly  and  the  pine! 


THE   RED  RIVER  VOYAGEUR. 

OUT  and  in  the  river  is  winding 
The  links  of  its  long,  red  chain 

Through  belts  of  dusky  pine-land 
And  gusty  leagues  of  plain. 

Only,  at  times,  a  smoke-wreath 

With      the      drifting      cloud-rack 
joins,  — 

The  smoke  of  the  hunting-lodges 
Of  the  wild  Assiniboins ! 

Drearily  blows  the  north-wind 
From  the  land  of  ice  and  snow ; 

The  eyes  that  look  are  weary, 
And  heavy  the  hands  that  row. 


And  with  one  foot  on  the  water, 

And  one  upon  the  shore, 
The  Angel  of  Shadow  gives  warning 

That  day  shall  be  no  more. 

Is  it  the  clang  of  wild-geese? 

Is  it  the  Indian's  yell, 
That  lends  to  the  voice  of  the  north- 
wind 

The  tones  of  a  far-off  bell  ? 

The  voyageur  smiles  as  he  listens 
To  the  sound  that  grows  apace ; 

Well  he  knows  the  vesper  ringing 
Of  the  bells  of  St.  Boniface. 

The  bells  of  the  Roman  Mission, 
That  call  from  their  turrets  twain, 

To  the  boatman  on  the  river, 
To  the  hunter  on  the  plain! 

Even  so  in  our  mortal  journey 
The  bitter  north-winds  blow, 

And  thus  upon  life's  Red  River 
Our  hearts,  as  oarsmen,  row. 

And  when  the  Angel  of  Shadow 
Rests  his  feet  on  wave  and  shore, 

And  our  eyes  grow  dim  with  watch- 
ing 
And  our  hearts  faint  at  the  oar, 

Happy  is  he  who  heareth 

The  signal  of  his  release 
In  the  bells  of  the  Holy  City, 

The  chimes  of  eternal  peace! 


KENOZA   LAKE. 

As  Adam  did  in  Paradise, 

To-day  the  primal  right  we  claim : 
Fair  mirror  of  the  woods  and  skies, 

We  give  to  thee  a  name. 

Lake  of  the  pickerel !  —  let  no  more 
The    echoes  answer  back,  "  Great 
Pond," 

But  sweet  Kenoza,  from  thy  shore 
And  watching  hills  beyond, 


TO   G.   B.   C. 


313 


Let  Indian  ghosts,  if  such  there  be 
Who    ply   unseen    their    shadowy 
lines, 

Call  back  the  ancient  name  to  thee, 
As  with  the  voice  of  pines. 

The  shores  we  trod  as  barefoot  boys, 
The    nutted    woods   we    wandered 
through, 

To  friendship,  love,  and  social  joys 
We  consecrate  anew. 


Here  shall  the  tender  song  be  sung, 
And  memory's  dirges  soft  and  low, 

And  wit  shall  sparkle  on  the  tongue, 
And  mirth  shall  overflow, 

Harmless  as  summer  lightning  plays 
From  a  low,  hidden  cloud  by  night, 

A  light  to  set  the  hills  ablaze, 
But  not  a  bolt  to  smite. 

In  sunny  South  and  prairied  West 
Are     exiled     hearts    remembering 

still, 
As    bees    their   hive,    as  birds    their 

nest, 
The  homes  of  Haver  hill. 

They  join  us  in  our  rites  to-day  ; 

And,  listening,  we  may  hear,  ere- 
long, 
From  inland  lake  and  ocean  bay, 

The  echoes  of  our  song. 

Kenoza!  o'er  no  sweeter  lake 

Shall  morning  break  or  noon-cloud 
sail,  — 

No  fairer  face  than  thine  shall  take 
The  sunset's  golden  veil. 

Long  be  it  ere  the  tide  of  trade 

Shall  break  with  harsh-resounding 
din 

The  quiet  of  thy  banks  of  shade, 
And  hills  that  fold  thee  in. 

Still  let  thy  woodlands  hide  the  hare, 
The  shy  loon  sound  his   trumpet- 
note ; 


Wing-weary  from  his  fields  of  air, 
The  wild-goose  on  thee  float. 

Thy  peace  rebuke  our  feverish  stir, 
Thy  beauty  our  deforming  strife  ; 

Thy  woods  and  waters  minister 
The  healing  of  their  life. 

And  sinless  Mirth,  from  care  re- 
leased, 

Behold,  unawed,  thy  mirrored  sky, 
Smiling  as  smiled  on  Cana's  feast 

The  Master's  loving  eye. 

And  when    the    summer    day   grows 

dim, 
And   light    mists  walk   thy  mimic 

^sea. 

Revive  in  us  the  thought  of  Him 
Who  walked  on  Galilee ! 


TO    G.  B.  C. 

So  ^pake    Esaias :    so,   in   words    of 

flame, 
Tekoa's  prophet-herdsman  smote  with 

blame 
The  traffickers    in    men,    and  put  to 

shame, 

All  earth  and  heaven  before, 
The  sacerdotal  robbers  of  the  poor. 

All  the  dread  Scripture  lives  for  thee 

again, 
To  smite  with  lightning  on  the  hands 

profane 
Lifted  to  bless  the  slave-whip  and  the 

chain. 

Once  more  th1  old  Hebrew  tongue 
Bends  with  the  shafts  of  God  a  bow 

new-strung! 

Take  up  the  mantle  which  the  proph- 
ets wore ; 

Warn  with  their  warnings, —  show  the 
Christ  once  more 

Bound,  scourged,  and  crucified  in  his 

blameless  poor ; 
And  shake  above  our  land 


POEMS  AND   LYRICS. 


The  unquenched  bolts  that  blazed  in 
Hosea's  hand ! 


Not  vainly  shalt  thou  cast  upon  our 
years 

The  solemn  burdens  of  the   Orient 
seers, 

And  smite  with  truth  a  guilty  nation's 

ears. 
Mightier  was  Luther's  word 

Than  Seckingen's  mailed  arm  or  Hut- 
ton's  sword! 


THE   SISTERS. 

A   PICTURE   BY   BARRY. 

THE  shade  for  me,  but  over  thee 
The  lingering  sunshine  still ; 

As,  smiling,  to  the  silent  stream 
Comes  down  the  singing  rill. 

So  come  to  me,  my  little  one, — 
My  years  with  thee  I  share, 

And  mingle  with  a  sister's  love 
A  mother's  tender  care. 

But  keep  the  smile  upon  thy  lip, 

The  trust  upon  thy  brow  ; 
Since  for  the  dear  one  God  hath  called 

We  have  an  angel  now. 

Our  mother  from  the  fields  of  heaven 

Shall  still  her  ear  incline  ; 
Nor  need  we  fear  her  human  love 

Is  less  for  love  divine. 

The  songs  are  sweet  they  sing  beneath 

The  trees  of  life  so  fair, 
But  sweetest  of  the  songs  of  heaven 

Shall  be  her  children's  prayer. 

Then,  darling,  rest  upon  my  breast, 
And  teach  my  heart  to  lean 

With  thy  sweet  trust  upon  the  arm 
Which  folds  us  both  unseen! 


LINES, 

FOR  THE  AGRICULTURAL  AND  HORTI- 
CULTURAL EXHIBITION  AT  AMES- 
BURY  AND  SALISBURY,  SEPT.  28, 
1858. 

THIS  day,  two  hundred  years  ago, 
The  wild  grape  by  the  river's  side, 

And  tasteless  groundnut  trailing  low, 
The  table  of  the  woods  supplied. 

Unknown  the  apple's  red  and  gold, 
The    blushing   tint   of  peach   and 
pear ; 

The  mirror  of  the  Powow  told 
No  tale  of  orchards  ripe  and  rare. 

Wild  as  the  fruits  he  scorned  to  till, 
These  vales  the  idle  Indian  trod ; 

Nor  knew  the  glad,  creative  skill,  — 
The  joy  of  him  who  toils  with  God. 

O  Painter  of  the  fruits  and  flowers ! 

We  thank  thee  for  thy  wise  design 
Whereby  these  human  hands  of  ours 

In  Nature's  garden  work  with  thine. 

And  thanks  that  from  our  daily  need 
The  joy  of  simple  faith  is  born  ; 

That  he  who  smites  the  summer  weed, 
May  trust  thee  for  the  autumn  corn. 

Give  fools  their  gold,  and  knaves  their 
power ; 

Let  fortune's  bubbles  rise  and  fall ; 
Who  sows  a  field,  or  trains  a  flower, 

Or  plants  a  tree,  is  more  than  all. 

For  he  who  blesses  most  is  blest ; 

And  God  and  man  shall  own  his 

worth 
Who  toils  to  leave  as  his  bequest 

An  added  beauty  to  the  earth. 

And,  soon  or  late,  to  all  that  sow, 
The  time  of  harvest  shall  be  given  ; 

The  flower  shall  bloom,  the  fruit  shall 

grow, 
If  not  on  earth,  at  last  in  heaven! 


THE   PREACHER. 


315 


THE   PREACHER. 

ITS  windows  flashing  to  the  sky, 

Beneath  a  thousand  roofs  of  brown, 
Far  down  the  vale,  my  friend  and  I 

Beheld  the  old  and  quiet  town  ; 
The  ghostly  sails  that  out  at  sea 
Flapped  their  white  wings  of  mystery  ; 
The  beaches  glimmering  in  the  sun, 
And  the  low  wooded  capes  that  run 
Into  the  sea-mist  north  and  south  ; 
The  sand-bluffs  at  the  river's  mouth ; 
The  swinging  chain-bridge,  and,  afar, 
The  foam-line  of  the  harbor-bar. 

Over  the  woods  and  meadow-lands 
A  crimson-tinted  shadow  lay 
Of  clouds  through  which  the  set- 
ting day 
Flung  a  slant  glory  far  away. 

It  glittered  on  the  wet  sea-sands, 
It  flamed  upon  the  city's  panes, 

Smote  the  white  sails  of  ships  that  wore 

Outward  or  in,  and  glided  o'er 

The   steeples   with    their    veering 


Awhile  my  friend  with  rapid  search 
O'erran  the  landscape.     "  Yonder 

spire 

Over  gray  roofs,  a  shaft  of  fire  ; 
What  is  it,  pray?"  —  ''The   White- 
field  Church ! 

Walled  about  by  its  basement  stones, 
There  rest  the  marvellous  prophet's 

bones." 
Then     as    our    homeward    way    we 

walked, 

Of  the  great  preacher's  life  we  talked  ; 
And  through  the  mystery  of  our  theme 
The  outward  glory  seemed  to  stream, 
And  Nature's  self  interpreted 
The  doubtful  record  of  the  dead ; 
And  every  level  beam  that  smote 
The  sails  upon  the  dark  afloat 
A  symbol  of  the  light  became 
Which  touched  the  shadows  of  our 

blame 
With  tongues  of  Pentecostal  flame. 


Over  the  roofs  of  the  pioneers 
Gathers  the  moss  of  a  hundred  years  ; 
On  man  and  his  works  has  passed  the 

change 
Which  needs  must  be  in  a  century's 

range. 
The  land  lies  open  and  warm  in  the 

sun, 

Anvils  clamor  and  mill-wheels  run, — 
Flocks  on  the  hillsides,  herds  on  the 

plain, 
The  wilderness  gladdened  with  fruit 

and  grain! 
But  the   living   faith  of  the  settlers 

old 
A    dead    profession    their    children 

hold ; 
To  the  lust  of  office  and   greed    of 

trade 

A  stepping-stone  is  the  altar  made. 
The  Church,  to  place  and  power  the 

door, 

Rebukes  the  sin  of  the  world  no  more, 
Nor  sees  its  Lord  in  the   homeless 

poor. 

Everywhere  is  the  grasping  hand, 
And  eager  adding  of  land  to  land  ; 
And  earth,  which  seemed  to  the  fathers 

meant 

But  as  a  pilgrim's  wayside  tent,  — 
A  nightly  shelter  to  fold  away 
When   the   Lord   should   call  at  the 

break  of  day, — 
Solid  and  steadfast  seems  to  be, 
And  Time  has  forgotten  Eternity! 

But  fresh  and  green  from  the  rotting 

roots 
Of  primal  forests  the  young  growth 

shoots  ; 
From  the  death  of  the  old  the  new 

proceeds, 
And  the  life  of  truth  from  the  rot  of 

creeds  : 
On  the  ladder  of  God,  which  upward 

leads, 
The   steps   of  progress    are    human 

needs. 
For  his  judgments  still  are  a  mighty 

deep, 


3i6 


POEMS   AND   LYRICS. 


And  the  eyes  of  his  providence  never 

sleep : 
When  the  night  is  darkest  he  gives 

the  morn ; 
When  the  famine  is  sorest,  the  wine 

and  corn! 

In  the  church  of  the  wilderness  Ed- 
wards wrought. 
Shaping   his    creed   at   the   forge   of 

thought ; 
And  with  Thor's  own  hammer  welded 

and  bent 

The  iron  links  of  his  argument, 
Which  strove  to  grasp  in  its  mighty 

span 
The  purpose  of  God  and  the  fate  of 

man! 

Yet  faithful  still,  in  his  daily  round 
To  the  weak,  and  the  poor,  and  sin- 
sick  found. 
The  schoolman's  lore  and  the  casuist's 

art 
Drew  warmth  and  life  from  his  fervent 

heart. 

Had  he  not  seen  in  the  solitudes 
Of  his  deep  and  dark  Northampton 

woods 

A  vision  of  love  about  him  fall  ? 
Not  the  blinding  splendor  which  fell 

on  Saul, 
But  the  tenderer  glory  that  rests  on 

them 

Who  walk  in  the  New  Jerusalem, 
Where  never  the  sun  nor  moon  are 

known, 
But  the  Lord  and  his  love  are  the  light 

alone! 

And  watching  the  sweet,  still  counte- 
nance 
Of  the   wife   of  his   bosom   rapt    in 

trance, 
Had   he   not   treasured  each  broken 

word 
Of  the   mystical    wonder   seen    and 

heard  ; 
And    loved    the    beautiful     dreamer 

more 
That  thus  to  the  desert  of  earth  she 

bore 


Clusters   of    Eschol    from    Canaan's 
shore? 

As  the  barley-winnower,  holding  with 

pain 

Aloft  in  waiting  his  chaff  and  grain, 
Joyfully  welcomes  the  far-off  breeze 
Sounding  the  pine-tree's  slender  keys, 
So  he  who  had  waited  long  to  hear 
The  sound  of  the  Spirit  drawing  near, 
Like  that  wh'ich  the  son  of  Iddo  heard 
When  the  feet  of  angels  the  myrtles 

stirred, 

Felt  the  answer  of  prayer,  at  last, 
As  over  his  church  the  afflatus  passed, 
Breaking  its  sleep  as  breezes  break 
To  sun-bright  ripples  a  stagnant  lake. 

At  first  a  tremor  of  silent  fear, 
The  creep  of  the  flesh  at  danger  near, 
A  vague  foreboding  and  discontent, 
Over  the  hearts  of  the  people  went. 
All  nature  warned  in  sounds  and  signs  : 
The  wind   in   the  tops  of  the  forest 

pines 
In  the  name  of  the  Highest  called  to 

prayer, 
As  the  muezzin  calls  from  the  minaret 

stair. 

Through  ceiled  chambers  of  secret  sin 
Sudden  and  strong  the  light  shone  in  ; 
A  guilty  sense  of  his  neighbor's  needs 
Startled  the  man  of  title-deeds  ; 
The  trembling  hand  of  the  worldling 

shook 

The  dust  of  years  from  the  Holy  Book  ; 
And  the  psalms  of  David,  forgotten 

long, 
Took  the  place  of  the  scoffer's  song. 

The  impulse  spread  like  the  outward 

course 

Of  waters  moved  by  a  central  force  : 
The  tide  of  spiritual  life  rolled  down 
From  inland  mountains  to  seaboard 

town. 

Prepared  and  ready  the  altar  stands 
Waiting  the  prophet's    outstretched 
hands 


THE   PREACHER. 


317 


And  prayer  availing,  to  downward  call 
The  fiery  answer  in  view  of  all. 
Hearts  are  like  wax  in  the  furnace, 

who 
Shall  mould,  and  shape,  and  cast  them 

anew  ? 
Lo!  by  the  Merrimack  WHITEFIELD 

stands 
In.  the  temple  that  never  was  made  by 

hands,  — 

Curtains  of  azure,  and  crystal  wall, 
And  dome  of  the  sunshine  over  all !  — 
A   homeless    pilgrim,    with    dubious 

name 

Blown  about  on  the  winds  of  fame  ; 
Now  as  an  angel  of  blessing  classed. 
And  no\v  as  a  mad  enthusiast. 
Called    in    his   youth    to    sound   and 

gauge 

The  moral  lapse  of  his  race  and  age, 
And,  sharp  as  truth,  the  contrast  draw 
Of  human  frailty  and  perfect  law  ; 
Possessed  by  the  one  dread  thought 

that  lent 

Its  goad  to  his  fiery  temperament, 
Up  and  down  the  world  he  went, 
A  John  the  Baptist  crying,  —  Repent! 

No    perfect    whole    can    our    nature 

make ; 

Here  or  there  the  circle  will  break ; 
The  orb  of  life  as  it  takes  the  light 
On  one  side  leaves  the  other  in  night. 
Never  was  saint  so  good  and  great 
As  to  give  no  chance  at  St.  Peter's 

gate 

For  the  plea  of  the  Devil's  advocate. 
So,  incomplete  by  his  being's  law, 
The    marvellous    preacher    had    his 

flaw: 
With    step   unequal,    and   lame   with 

faults, 
His   shade   on   the  path    of  History 

halts. 

Wisely   and  well  said    the   Eastern 

bard; 

Fear  is  easy,  but  love  is  hard,  — 
Easy  to  glow  with  the  Santon's  rage, 
And  walk  on  the  Meccan  pilgrimage  ; 


But  he  is  greatest  and  best  who  can 
Worship  Allah  by  loving  man. 

Thus   he,  —  to  whom,  in  the  painful 

stress 

Of  zeal  on  fire  from  its  own  excess, 
Heaven  seemed  so  vast  and  earth  so 

small 
That  man  was  nothing,  since  God  was 

all,— 
Forgot,    as   the  best   at   times    have 

done, 
That  the  love  of  the  Lord  and  of  man 

are  one. 

Little  to  him  whose  feet  unshod 
The  thorny  path  of  the  desert  trod, 
Careless  of  pain,  so  it  led  to  God, 
Seemed  the  hunger-pang  and  the  poor 

man's  wrong, 
The  weak  ones  trodden  beneath  the 

strong. 
Should  the  worm  be  chooser?  —  the 

clay  withstand 
The  shaping  will  of  the  potter's  hand  ? 

In  the  Indian  fable  Arjoon  hears 
The  scorn  of  a  god  rebuke  his  fears : 
"  Spare  thy  pity!  "  Krishna  saith  ; 
"Not  in  thy  sword  is  the  power  of 

death ! 

All  is  illusion,  —  loss  but  seems  ; 
Pleasure  and  pain  are  only  dreams  ; 
Who  deems  he  slayeth  doth  not  kill ; 
Who  counts  as  slain  is  living  still. 
Strike,  nor  fear  thy  blow  is  crime ; 
Nothing  dies  but  the  cheats  of  time ; 
Slain  or  slayer,  small  the  odds 
To  each,  immortal  as  Indra's  gods!  " 

So  by  Savannah's  banks  of  shade, 

The  stones  of  his  mission  the  preacher 
laid 

On  the  heart  of  the  negro  crushed  and 
rent, 

And  made  of  his  blood  the  wall's  ce- 
ment ; 

Bade  the  slave-ship  speed  from  coast 
to  coast 


POEMS  AND   LYRICS. 


Fanned  by  the  wings  of  the  Holy 
Ghost ; 

And  begged,  for  the  love  of  Christ,  the 
f  gold 

Coined  from  the  hearts  in  its  groaning 
hold. 

What  could  it  matter,  more  or  less 

Of  stripes,  and  hunger,  and  weari- 
ness? 

Living  or  dying,  bond  or  free, 

What  was  time  to  eternity  ? 

Alas    for    the    preacher's    cherished 

schemes! 
Mission   and    church    are    now   but 

dreams ; 
Nor  prayer   nor   fasting  availed  the 

plan 
To  honor  God  through  the  wrong  of 

man. 

Of  all  his  labors  no  trace  remains 
Save  the  bondman  lifting  his  hands 

in  chains. 
The  woof  he  wove  in  the  righteous 

warp 

Of  freedom-loving  Oglethorpe, 
Clothes  with  curses  the  goodly  land. 
Changes  its  greenness  and  bloom  to 

sand ; 
And  a  century's   lapse  reveals  once 

more 
The  slave-ship  stealing  to  Georgia's 

shore. 

Father  of  Light !  how  blind  is  he 
Who  sprinkles  "the  altar  he  rears  to 

Thee 
With  the  blood  and  tears  of  humanity ! 

He  erred  :  Shall  we  count  his  gifts  as 

naught  ? 
Was  the  work   of  God   in   him   un- 

wrought  ? 
The  servant  may  through  his  deafness 

err, 

And  blind  may  be  God's  messenger ; 
But  the  errand  is  sure  they  go  upon,  — 
The  word  is  spoken,  the  deed  is  done. 
Was  the  Hebrew  temple  less  fair  and 

good 
That  Solomon  bowed  to  gods  of  wood  ? 


For  his  tempted  heart  and  wandering 

feet, 
Were  the  songs  of  David  less  pure 

and  sweet? 
So  in  light  and  shadow  the  preacher 

went, 

God's  erring  and  human  instrument ; 
And  the  hearts  of  the  people  where  he 

passed 

Swayed  as  the  reeds  sway  in  the  blast, 
Under  the  spell  of  a  voice  which  took 
In  its  compass  the  flow  of  Siloa's 

brook, 
And  the  mystical  chime  of  the  bells 

of  gold 
On  the  ephod's  hem  of  the  priest  of 

old,— 
Now  the  roll  of  thunder,  and  now  the 

awe 
Of  the  trumpet  heard  in  the  Mount 

of  Law. 

A  solemn  fear  on  the  listening  crowd 
Fell  like  the  shadow  of  a  cloud. 
The  sailor  reeling  from  out  the  ships 
Whose  masts  stood  thick  in  the  river- 
slips 
Felt  the  jest  and  the  curse  die  on  his 

lips. 

Listened  the  fisherman  rude  and  hard, 
The  calker  rough  from  the  builder's 

yard, 

The  man  of  the  market  left  his  load, 
The  teamster  leaned  on  his  bending 

goad, 
The   maiden,  and  youth  beside  her, 

felt 

Their  hearts  in  a  closer  union  melt, 
And  saw  the  flowers  of  their  love  in 

bloom 
Down   the   endless  vistas  of  life  to 

come. 

Old  age  sat  feebly  brushing  away 
From  his    ears   the    scanty  locks    of 

gray ; 

And  careless  boyhood,  living  the  free 
Unconscious  life  of  bird  and  tree, 
Suddenly  wakened  to  a  sense 
Of  sin  and  its  guilty  consequence. 
It  was  as  if  an  angel's  voice 


THE   PREACHER. 


319 


Called  the  listeners  up  for  their  final 

choice ; 

As  if  a  strong  hand  rent  apart 
The  veils  of  sense  from  soul  and  heart, 
Showing  in  light  ineffable 
The  joys  of  heaven  and  woes  of  hell ! 
All  about  in  the  misty  air 
The   hills  seemed  kneeling  in  silent 

prayer ; 

The  rustle  of  leaves,  the  moaning  sedge 
The  water's  lap  on  its  gravelled  edge, 
The  wailing  pines,  and,  far  and  faint, 
The  wood-dove's  note    of  sad  coni- 

plaint, — 
To  the  solemn  voice  of  the  preacher 

lent 

An  undertone  as  of  low  lament ; 
And  the  rote  of  the  sea  from  its  sandy 

coast, 
On  the  easterly  wind,  now  heard,  now 

lost, 
Seemed  the  murmurous  sound  of  the 

judgment  host. 

Yet  wise  men  doubted,  and  good  men 

wept, 
As  that  storm  of  passion  above  them 

swept, 
And,    comet-like,    adding    flame    to 

flame, 
The    priests    of    the    new    Evangel 

came,  — 

Davenport,  flashing  upon  the  crowd, 
Charged  like  summers  electric  cloud, 
Now    holding    the    listener    still    as 

death 

With  terrible  warnings  under  breath. 
Now  shouting  for  joy,  as  if  he  viewed 
The  vision  of  Heaven's  beatitude! 
And  Celtic  Tennant,  his    long   coat 

bound 
Like   a   monk's  with  leathern  girdle 

round, 

Wild  with  the  toss  of  unshorn  hair, 
And   wringing  of    hands,   and   eyes 

aglare, 

Groaning  under  the  world's  despair! 
Grave  pastors,  grieving  their  flocks  to 

lose, 
Prophesied  to  the  empty  pews 


That  gourds  would  wither,  and  mush- 
rooms die, 

And  noisiest  fountains  run  soonest  dry, 
Like  the  spring  that  gushed  in  New- 

bury  Street, 
Under  the  tramp  of  the  earthquake's 

feet, 

A  silver  shaft  in  the  air  and  light, 
For  a  single  day,  then  lost  in  night, 
Leaving  only,  its  place  to  tell, 
Sandy  fissure  and  sulphurous  smell. 
With    zeal    wing-clipped   and   white- 
heat  cool, 

Moved  by  the  spirit  in  grooves  of  rule, 
No  longer  harried,  and  cropped,  and 

fleeced, 

Flogged  by  sheriff  and  cursed  by  priest, 
But  by  wiser  counsels  left  at  ease 
To  settle  quietly  on  his  lees, 
And,  self-concentred,  to  count  as  done 
The  work  which   his   fathers   scarce 

begun, 

In  silent  protest  of  letting  alone, 
The  Quaker  kept  the  way  of  his  own, — 
A  non-conductor  among  the  wires, 
With  coat  of  asbestos  proof  to  fires. 
And  quite  unable  to  mend  his  pace 
To  catch  the  falling  manna  of  grace, 
He  hugged  the  closer  his  little  store 
Of  faith,  and  silently  prayed  for  more. 
And  vague  of  creed  and  barren  of  rite, 
But  holding,  as  in  his  Master's  sight, 
Act  and  thought  to  the  inner  light, 
The  round  of  his  simple  duties  walked, 
And  strove  to  live  what   the   others 
talked. 

And  who  shall  marvel  if  evil  went 
Step  by  step  with  the  good  intent, 
And  with  love  and  meekness,  side  by 

side, 

Lust  of  the  flesh  and  spiritual  pride?  — 
That  passionate  longings  and  fancies 

vain 
Set  the  heart  on  fire  and  crazed  the 

brain  ?  — 

That  over  the  holy  oracles 
Folly  sported  with  cap  and  bells  ?  — 
That  goodly  women  and  learned  men 
Marvelling  told  with  tongue  and  pen 


320 


POEMS   AND    LYRICS. 


How  unweaned*children  chirped  like 

birds 

Texts  of  Scripture  and  solemn  words, 
Like  the  infant  seers  of  the  rocky  glens 
In  the  Puy  de  Dome  of  wild  Cevennes  : 
Or  baby  Lamas  who  pray  and  preach 
From  Tartar  cradles  in  Buddha's 

speech  ? 

In  the  war  which  Truth  or  Freedom 

wages 
With  impious  fraud  and  the  wrong  of 

ages 

Hate  and  malice  and  self-love  mar 
The  notes  of  triumph  with  painful  jar, 
And  the  helping  angels  turn  aside 
Their  sorrowing  faces  the  shame  to 

hide. 

Never  on  custom's  oile'd  grooves 
The  world  to  a  higher  level  moves, 
But   grates   and  grinds  with  friction 

hard 

On  granite  boulder  and  flinty  shard. 
The  heart  must  bleed  before  it  feels, 
The  pool  be  troubled  before  it  heals ; 
Ever  by  losses  the  right  must  gain, 
Every  good  have  its  birth  of  pain ; 
The  active  Virtues  blush  to  find 
The  Vices  wearing  their   badge   be- 
hind, 

And  Graces  and  Charities  feel  the  fire 
Wherein  the  sins  of  the  age' expire; 
The  fiend  still  rends  as  of  old  he  rent 
The   tortured  body   from  which   he 
went. 

But  Time  tests  all.  In  the  over-drift 
And  flow  of  the  Nile,  with  its  annual 

gift, 

Who  cares  for  the  Hadji's  relics  sunk? 
Who  thinks  of  the  drowned-out  Coptic 

monk? 
The  tide   that    loosens  the  temple's 

stones, 

And  scatters  the  sacred  ibis-bones, 
Drives  away  from  the  valley-land 
That    Arab    robber,   the    wandering 

sand, 

Moistens  the  fields  that  know  no  rain, 
Fringes  the  desert  with  belts  of  grain, 


And  bread  to  the  sower  brings  again. 

So  the  flood  of  emotion  deep  and 
strong 

Troubled  the  land  as  it  swept  along, 

But  left  a  result  of  holier  lives, 

Tenderer  mothers  and  worthier  wives. 

The  husband  and  father  whose  chil- 
dren fled 

And  sad  wife  wept  when  his  drunken 
tread 

Frightened  peace  from  his  roof-tree's 
shade, 

And  a  rock  of  offence  his  hearthstone 
made, 

In  a  strength  that  was  not  his  own, 
began 

To  rise  from  the  brute's  to  the  plane 
of  man. 

Old  friends  embraced,  long  held  apart 

By  evil  counsel  and  pride  of  heart ; 

And  penitence  saw  through  misty 
tears, 

In  the  bow  of  hope  on  its  cloud  of 
fears, 

The  promise  of  Heaven's  eternal 
years,  — 

The  peace  of  God  for  the  world's  an- 
noy,— 

Beauty  for  ashes,  and  oil  of  joy! 

Under  the  church  of  Federal  Street, 
Under  the  tread  of  its  Sabbath  feet, 
Walled  about  by  its  basement  stones, 
Lie  the  marvellous  preacher's  bones. 
No  saintly  honors  to  them  are  shown, 
No  sign  nor  miracle  have  they  known  ; 
But  he  who  passes  the  ancient  church 
Stops  in  the  shade  of  its  belfry-porch, 
And   ponders    the  wonderful   life   of 

him 

Who  lies  at  rest  in  that  charnel  dim. 
Long  shall  the  traveller  strain  his  eye 
From  the  railroad  car,  as  it  plunges 

by, 
And  the  vanishing  town  behind  him 

search 
For  the  slender  spire  of  the  Whitefield 

Church  ; 
And  feel  for  one  moment  the  ghosts 

of  trade, 


THE   QUAKER   ALUMNI. 


321 


And  fashion,  and  folly,  and  pleasure 

laid, 

By  the  thought  of  that  life  of  pure  in- 
tent, 

That  voice  of  warning  yet  eloquent, 
Of    one   on   the    errands    of   angels 

sent. 
And  if  where  he  labored  the  flood  of 

sin 
Like  a  tide  from  the  harbor-bar  sets 

in, 

And  over  a  life  of  time  and  sense 
The  church-spires  lift  their  vain  de- 
fence, 

As  if  to  scatter  the  bolts  of  God 
With  the  points  of  Calvin's  thunder- 
rod, — 

Still,  as  the  gem  of  its  civic  crown, 
Precious  beyond  the  world's  renown, 
His    memory    hallows    the     ancient 
town ! 


THE  QUAKER  ALUMNI. 

FROM  the  well-springs  of  Hudson,  the 

sea-cliffs  of  Maine, 
Grave  men,  sober  matrons,  you  gather 

again  ; 
A.nd,  with  hearts  warmer    grown   as 

your  heads  grow  more  cool. 
Play  over  the  old  game  of  going  to 

school. 

All  your  strifes  and  vexations,  your 
whims  and  complaints, 

(You  were  not  saints  yourselves,  if  the 
children  of  saints !  ) 

All  your  petty  self-seekings  and  rival- 
ries done, 

Round  the  dear  Alma  Mater  your 
hearts  beat  as  one! 

How  widely  soe'er  you  have  strayed 

from  the  fold, 
Though     your    "  thee "    has    grown 

"  you,"  and  your  drab  blue  and 

gold, 
To  the  old  friendly  speech  and  the 

garb's  sober  form, 
Y 


Like  the  heart  of  Argyle  to  the  tartan, 
you  warm. 

But,  the  first  greetings  over,  you 
glance  round  the  hall ; 

Your  hearts  call  the  roll,  but  they  an- 
swer not  all : 

Through  the  turf  green  above  them 
the  dead  cannot  hear; 

Name  by  name,  in  the  silence,  falls 
sad  as  a  tear ! 

In  love,  let  us  trust,  they  were  sum- 
moned so  soon 

From  the  morning  of  life,  while  we 
toil  through  its  noon  ; 

They  were  frail  like  ourselves,  they 
had  needs  like  our  own, 

And  they  rest  as  we  rest  in  God's 
mercy  alone. 

Unchanged  by  our  changes  of  spirit 

and  frame, 
Past,  now,  and  henceforward  the  Lord 

is  the  same ; 
Though  we  sink  in  the  darkness,  his 

arms  break  our  fall, 
And  in  death  as  in  life,  he  is  Father 

of  all! 

We  are  older:  our  footsteps,  so  light 

in  the  play 
Of  the    far-away   school-time,   move 

slower  to-day ;  — 
Here  a  beard  touched  with  frost,  there 

a  bald,  shining  crown, 
And   beneath  the  cap's  border  gray 

mingles  with  brown. 

But  faith  should  be  cheerful,  and  trust 

should  be  glad, 
And  our  follies  and  sins,  not  our  years, 

make  us  sad. 
Should  the  heart  closer  shut  as  the 

bonnet  grows  prim, 
And  the  face  grow  in  length  as  the 

hat  grows  in  brim  ? 

Life  is  brief,  duty  grave;  but,  with 
rainfolded  wings, 


322 


POEMS  AND   LYRICS. 


Of  yesterday's  sunshine  the  grateful 

heart  sings ; 
And  we,  of  all  others,  have  reason  to 

pay 
The  tribute  of  thanks,  and  rejoice  on 

our  way ; 

For  the  counsels  that  turned  from  the 
follies  of  youth  ; 

For  the  beauty  of  patience,  the  white- 
ness of  truth ; 

For  the  wounds  of  rebuke,  when  love 
tempered  its  edge ; 

For  the  household's  restraint,  and  the 
discipline's  hedge ; 

For  the  lessons  of  kindness  vouch- 
safed to  the  least 

Of  the  creatures  of  God,  whether  hu- 
man or  beast, 

Bringing  hope  to  the  poor,  lending 
strength  to  the  frail, 

In  the  lanes  of  the  city,  the  slave-hut, 
and  jail ; 

For  a  womanhood  higher  and  holier. 

by  all 
Her  knowledge  of  good,  than  was  Eve 

ere  her  fall,  — 
Whose"  task-work    of    duty    moves 

lightly  as  play, 
Serene  as  the  moonlight  and  warm  as 

the  day ; 

And,  yet  more,  for  the  faith  which 

embraces  the  whole, 
Of  the  creeds  of  the  ages  the  life  and 

the  soul, 
Wherein  letter  and  spirit  the  same 

channel  run, 
And  man  has  not  severed  what  God 

has  made  one! 

For  a  sense  of  the  Goodness  revealed 

everywhere, 
As  sunshine  impartial,  and  free  as  the 

air ; 
For  a  trust  in  humanity,  Heathen  or 

Jew, 


And  a  hope  for  all  darkness  The  Light 
shineth  through. 

Who  scoffs  at  our  birthright?  —  the 
words  of  the  seers, 

And  the  songs  of  the  bards  in  the  twi- 
light of  years, 

All  the  foregleams  of  wisdom  in  san- 
ton  and  sage, 

In  prophet  and  priest,  are  our  true 
heritage. 

The  Word  which  the  reason  of  Plato 

discerned ; 
The    truth,    as    whose    symbol    the 

Mithra-fire  burned ; 
The  soul  of  the  world  which  the  Stoic 

but  guessed, 
In  the  Light  Universal    the  Quaker 

confessed ! 

No  honors  of  war  to  our  worthies  be- 
long; 

Their  plain  stem  of  life  never  flowered 
into  song ; 

But  the  fountains  they  opened  still 
gush  by  the  way, 

And  the  world  for  their  healing  is  bet- 
ter to-day. 

He  who  lies  where  the  minster's 
groined  arches  curve  down 

To  the  tomb-crowded  transept  of 
England's  renown, 

The  glorious  essayist,  by  genius  en- 
throned, 

Whose  pen  as  a  sceptre  the  Muses  all 
owned,  — 

Who   through   the  world's  pantheon 

walked  in  his  pride, 
Setting  new  statues  up,  thrusting  old 

ones  aside, 
And  in  fiction  the  pencils  of  history 

clipped, 
To  gild  o'er  or  blacken  each  saint  in 

his  crypt,  — 

How  vainly  he  labored  to  sully  with 
blame 


THE  QUAKER   ALUMNI. 


323 


The  white  bust  of  Penn,  in  the  niche 

of  his  fame ! 
Self-will  is  self-wounding,  perversity 

blind : 
On   himself    fell   the    stain    for    the 

Quaker  designed! 

For  the  sake  of  his  true-hearted  father 

before  him  ; 
For  the   sake  of   the    dear   Quaker 

mother  that  bore  him  ; 
For  the   sake    of  his   gifts,    and  the 

works  that  outlive  him, 
And  his  brave  words  for  freedom,  we 

freely  forgive  him ! 

There  are  those  who  take  note  that 

our  numbers  are  small,  — 
New  Gibbons  who  write  our  decline 

and  our  fall ; 
But  the  Lord  of  the  seed-field  takes 

care  of  his  own, 
And  the  world  shall  yet  reap  what  our 

sowers  have  sown. 

The  last  of  the  sect  to  his  fathers  may 

l°» 

Leaving  only  his  coat  for  some  Bar- 

num  to  show ; 
But  the  truth  will   outlive  him,  and 

broaden  with  years, 
Till   the   false   dies    away,    and    the 

wrong  disappears. 

Nothing  fails  of  its  end.    Out  of  sight 

sinks  the  stone, 
In  the  deep  sea  of  time,  but  the  circles 

sweep  on, 
Till  the   low-rippled   murmurs  along 

the  shores  run, 
And  the  dark  and  dead  waters  leap 

glad  in  the  sun. 

Meanwhile  shall  we  learn,  in  our  ease, 
to  forget 

To  the  martyrs  of  Truth  and  of  Free- 
dom our  debt?  — 

Hide  their  words  out  of  sight,  like  the 
garb  that  they  wore, 


And  for  Barclay's  Apology  offer  one 
more  ? 

Shall  we  fawn  round  the  priestcraft 

that  glutted  the  shears, 
And   festooned   the  stocks  with  our 

grandfathers1  ears?  — 
Talk  of  Woolman's  unsoundness?  — 

count  Penn  heterodox? 
And  take  Cotton  Mather  in  place  of 

George  Fox?  — 

Make  our  preachers  war-chaplains? — 

quote  Scripture  to  take 
The  hunted  slave  back,  for  Onesimus' 

sake?- 
Go  to   burning   church-candles,   and 

chanting  in  choir, 
And  on  the  old  meeting-house  stick 

up  a  spire  ? 

No!    the  old  paths  we '11  keep  until 

better  are  shown, 
Credit  good  where  we  find  it,  abroad 

or  our  own  ; 
And  while  "  Lo  here  "  and  "  Lo  there" 

the  multitude  call, 
Be  true  to  ourselves,  and  do  justice  to 

all. 

The  good  round  about  us  we  need  not 

refuse, 
Nor  talk  of  our  Zion  as  if  we  were 

Jews  ; 
But  why  shirk  the  badge  which  our 

fathers  have  worn, 
Or  beg  the  world's  pardon  for  having 

been  born? 

We  need  not  pray  over  the  Pharisee's 
prayer, 

Nor  claim  that  our  wisdom  is  Benja- 
min's share. 

Truth  to  us  and  to  others  is  equal  and 
one: 

Shall  we  bottle  the  free  air,  or  hoard 
up  the  sun  ? 

Well  know  we  our  birthright  may 
serve  but  to  show 


324 


POEMS   AND   LYRICS. 


How  the  meanest   of  weeds   in   the 

richest  soil  grow ; 
But  we  need  not  disparage  the  good 

which  we  hold  ; 
Though  the  vessels  be  earthen,  the 

treasure  is  gold ! 

Enough  and  too  much  of  the  sect  and 

the  name. 
What  matters  our  label,  so  truth  be 

our  aim  ? 
The  creed  may  be  wrong,  but  the  life 

may  be  true, 
And  hearts  beat  the  same  under  drab 

coats  or  blue. 

So  the  man  be  a  man,  let  him  worship, 

at  will, 
In  Jerusalem's  courts,  or  on  Gerizim's 

hill. 
When  she  makes  up  her  jewels,  what 

cares  the  good  town 
For   the    Baptist    of  WAYLAND,  the 

Quaker  of  BROWN  ? 

And  this   green,    favored   island,   so 

fresh  and  sea-blown, 
When  she  counts  up  the  worthies  her 

annals  have  known, 
Never  waits  for  the  pitiful  gaugers  of 

sect 
To  measure  her  love,  and  mete  out 

her  respect. 

Three   shades  at  this  moment  seem 

walking  her  strand, 
Each    with    head    halo-crowned,  and 

with  palms  in  his  hand,— 
Wise  Berkeley,  grave  Hopkins,  and, 

smiling  serene 
On  prelate  and  puritan,  Channing  is 

seen. 

One  holy  name  bearing,  no  longer 
they  need 

Credentials  of  party,  and  pass-words 
of  creed : 

The  new  song  they  sing  hath  a  three- 
fold accord, 


light    measure    whose 


And  they  own  one  baptism,  one  faith 
and  one  Lord ! 

But  the  golden  sands  run  out :  occa- 
sions like  these 

Glide  swift  into  shadow,  like  sails  on 
the  seas : 

While  we  sport  with  the  mosses  and 
pebbles  ashore, 

They  lessen  and  fade,  and  we  see 
them  no  more. 

Forgive  me,  dear  friends,  if  my  va- 
grant thoughts  seem 

Like  a  school-boy's  who  idles  and 
plays  with  his  theme. 

Forgive    the 

changes  display 

The  sunshine  and  rain  of  our  brief 
April  day. 

There  are  moments  in  life  when  the 

lip  and  the  eye 
Try  the  question  of  whether  to  smile 

or  to  cry ; 
And  scenes  and  reunions  that  prompt 

like  our  own 
The  tender  in  feeling,  the  playful  in 

tone. 

I,  who  never  sat  down  with  the  boys 

and  the  girls 
At    the  feet    of  your    Slocums,    and 

Cartlands,  and  Earles,  — 
By  courtesy  only  permitted  to  lay 
On  your  festival's  altar  my  poor  gift, 

to-day, —  » 

I  would  joy  in  your  joy  :  let  me  have 
a  friend's  part 

In  the  warmth  of  your  welcome  of 
hand  and  of  heart,  — 

On  your  play-ground  of  boyhood  un- 
bend the  brow's  care, 

And  shift  the  old  burdens  our  shoul- 
ders must  bear. 

Long  live  the  good  School!  giving 
out  year  by  year 

Recruits  to  true  manhood  and  woman- 
hood dear : 


BROWN   OF  OSSAWATOMIE. 


325 


Brave  boys,  modest  maidens,  in  beauty 

sept  forth, 
The  living  epistles  and  proof  of  its 

worth ! 

In  and  out  let  the  young  life  as  steadily 

flow 
As  in  broad  Narragansett  the  tides 

come  and  go ; 
And   its  sons    and   its   daughters  in 

prairie  and  town 
Remember  its  honor,  and  guard  its 

renown. 

Not  vainly  the  gift  of  its  founder  was 
made; 


Not  prayerless  the  stones  of  its  cor- 
ner were  laid : 

The  blessing  of  Him  whom  in  secret 
they  sought 

Has  owned  the  good  work  which  the 
fathers  have  wrought. 

To  Him  be  the  glory  forever!  —  We 

bear 
To  the  Lord  of  the  Harvest  our  wheat 

with  the  tare. 
What  \ve  lack  in  our  work  may  He 

find  in  our  will, 
And  winnow  in  mercy  our  good  from 

the  ill! 


BROWN   OF   OSSAWATOMIE. 

JOHN  BROWN  OF  OSSAWATOMIE  spake  on  his  dying  day : 
"  I  will  not  have  to  shrive  my  soul  a  priest  in  Slavery's  pay. 
But  let  some  poor  slave-mother  whom  I  have  striven  to  free, 
With  her  children,  from  the  gallows-stair  put  up  a  prayer  for  me ! " 

John  Brown  of  Ossawatomie,  they  led  him  out  to  die ; 

And  lo!  a  poor  slave-mother  with  her  little  child  pressed  nigh. 

Then  the  bold,  blue  eye  grew  tender,  and  the  old  harsh  face  grew  mild, 

As  he  stooped  between  the  jeering  ranks  and  kissed  the  negro's  child! 

The  shadows  of  his  stormy  life  that  moment  fell  apart ; 
And  they  who  blamed  the  bloody  hand  forgave  the  loving  heart. 
That  kiss  from  all  its  guilty  means  redeemed  the  good  intent, 
And  round  the  grisly  fighter's  hair  the  martyr's  aureole  bent! 

Perish  with  him  the  folly  that  seeks  through  evil  good ! 
Long  live  the  generous  purpose  unstained  with  human  blood! 
Not  the  raid  of  midnight  terror,  but  the  thought  which  underlies ; 
Not  the  borderer's  pride  of  daring,  but  the  Christian's  sacrifice. 

Nevermore  may  yon  Blue  Ridges  the  Northern  rifle  hear, 
Nor  see  the  light  of  blazing  homes  flash  on  the  negro's  spear. 
But  let  the  free-winged  angel  Truth  their  guarded  passes  scale, 
To  teach  that  right  is  more  than  might,  and  justice  more  than  mail! 

So  vainly  shall  Virginia  set  her  battle  in  array ; 
In  vain  her  trampling  squadrons  knead  the  winter  snow  with  clay. 
She  may  strike  the  pouncing  eagle,  but  she  dares  not  harm  the  dove ; 
And  every  gate  she  bars  to  Hate  shall  open  wide  to  Love! 


326 


POEMS  AND   LYRICS. 


FROM   PERUGIA. 

"  The  thing  which  has  the  most  dissev- 
ered the  people  from  the  Pope,  —  the 
unforgivable  thing,  —  the  breaking  point 
between  him  and  them,  —  has  been  the 
encouragement  and  promotion  he  gave  to 
the  officer  under  whom  were  executed  the 
slaughters  of  Perugia.  That  made  the 
breaking  point  in  many  honest  hearts  that 
had  clung  to  him  before."  —  Harriet  Beecher 
Stowe's  "  Letters  from  Italy" 

THE    tall,    sallow    guardsmen    their 

horsetails  have  spread, 
Flaming  out  in  their  violet,  yellow, 

and  red ; 
And  behind  go  the  lackeys  in  crimson 

and  buff, 
And  the   chamberlains  gorgeous   in 

velvet  and  ruff; 
Next,  in  red-legged  pomp,  come  the 

cardinals  forth, 
Each   a  lord   of  the   church   and  a 

prince  of  the  earth. 

What 's  this  squeak  of  the  fife,  and 

this  batter  of  drum? 
Lo!  the  Swiss  of  the  Church  from 

Perugia  come,  — 
The   militant   angels,   whose    sabres 

drive  home 
To    the    hearts  of  the  malcontents, 

cursed  and  abhorred. 
The    good    Father's    missives,    and 

"Thus  saith  the  Lord!'1 
And  lend  to  his  logic  the  point  of  the 

sword ! 

O  maids  of  Etruria,  gazing  forlorn 
O'er  dark  Thrasymenus,  dishevelled 

and  torn! 
O  fathers,  who   pluck  at  your  gray 

beards  for  shame! 
O    mothers,  struck    dumb  by  a  woe 

without  name! 
Well  y§  know  how  the  Holy  Church 

hireling  behaves, 
And  his  tender  compassion  of  prisons 

and  graves ! 


There  they  stand,  the  hired  stabbers, 

the  blood-stains  yet  fresh, 
That  splashed  like  red  wine  from  the 

vintage  of  flesh,  — 
Grim  instruments,  careless  as  pincers 

and  rack 
How  the  joints   tear  apart,  and  the 

strained  sinews  crack ; 
But  the  hate  that  glares  on  them  is 

sharp  as  their  swords, 
And  the   sneer  and  the  scowl  print 

the  air  with  fierce  words ! 

Off  with  hats,  down  with  knees,  shout 
your  vivas  like  mad! 

Here  's  the  Pope  in  his  holiday  right- 
eousness clad, 

From  shorn  crown  to  toe-nail,  kiss- 
worn  to  the  quick, 

Of  sainthood  in  purple  the  pattern 
and  pick, 

Who  the  role  of  the  priest  and  the 
soldier  unites, 

And,  praying  like  Aaron,  like  Joshua 
fights ! 

Is   this   Pio  Nono   the  gracious,  for 

whom 
We  sang*  our  hosannas  and  lighted 

all  Rome ; 
With  whose  advent  we  dreamed  the 

new  era  began 
When  the  priest  should  be  human, 

the  monk  be  a  man? 
Ah,  the  wolf's  with  the  sheep,  and 

the  fox  with  the  fowl, 
When  freedom  we  trust  to  the  crozier 

and  cowl ! 

Stand  aside,  men  of  Rome !  Here  's 
a  hangman-faced  Swiss  — 

(A  blessing  for  him  surely  can't  go 
amiss)  — 

Would  kneel  down  the  sanctified  slip- 
per to  kiss. 

Short  shrift  will  suffice  him,  —  he's 
blessed  beyond  doubt ; 

But  there  's  blood  on  his  hands  which 
would  scarcely  wash"  out, 


FOR  AN  AUTUMN  FESTIVAL. 


327 


Though  Peter  himself  held  the  bap- 
tismal spout ! 

Make  way  for  the  next!  Here's  an- 
other sweet  son! 

What 's  this  mastiff-jawed  rascal  in 
epaulets  done? 

He  did,  whispers  rumor,  (its  truth 
God  forbid!) 

At  Perugia  what  Herod  at  Bethlehem 
did. 

And  the  mothers?  —  Don't  name 
them !  —  these  humors  of  war 

They  who  keep  him  in  service  must 
pardon  him  for. 

Hist!  here  's  the  arch-knave  in  a  car- 
dinal's hat. 

With  the  heart  of  a  wolf,  and  the 
stealth  of  a  cat 

(As  if  Judas  and  Herod  together 
were  rolled), 

Who  keeps,  all  as  one>  the  Pope's 
conscience  and  gold, 

Mounts  guard  on  the  altar,  and  pil- 
fers from  thence, 

And  flatters  St.  Peter  while  stealing 
his  pence! 

Who  doubts  Antonelli?  Have  mira- 
cles ceased 

When  robbers  say  mass,  and  Barab- 
bas  is  priest? 

When  the  Church  eats  and  drinks,  at 
its  mystical  board, 

The  true  flesh  and  blood  carved  and 
shed  by  its  sword, 

When  its  martyr,  unsinged,  claps  the 
crown  on  his  head, 

And  roasts,  as  his  proxy,  his  neigh- 
bor instead ! 

There !  the  bells  jow  and  jangle  the 
the  same  blessed  way 

That  they  did  when  they  rang  for 
Bartholomew's  day. 

Hark!  the  tallow-faced  monsters, 
nor  women  nor  boys, 

Vex  the  air  with  a  shrill,  sexless  hor- 
ror of  noise. 


Te    Deuni   laudamusl  —  All     round 

without  stint 
The  incense-pot  swings  with  a  taint 

of  blood  in  't! 

And  now  for  the  blessing!     Of  little 

account, 
You  know,  is  the  old  one  they  heard 

on  the  Mount. 
Its  giver  was   landless,    his   raiment 

was  poor, 

No  jewelled  tiara  his  fishermen  wore  ; 
No  incense,  no  lackeys,  no  riches,  no 

home, 
No  Swiss  Guards !  —  We  order  things 

better  at  Rome. 

So   bless   us   the   strong   hand,   and 

curse  us  the  weak  ; 
Let  Austria's   vulture  have  food  for 

her  beak  ; 
Let   the   wolf-whelp  of  Naples   play 

Bomba  again, 
With    his   death-cap  of  silence,  and 

halter,  and  chain ; 
Put   reason,    and  justice,   and    truth 

under  ban  ; 
For  the  sin  unforgiven  is  freedom  for 

man ! 


FOR   AN   AUTUMN   FESTIVAL. 

THE    Persian's     flowery     gifts,     the 
shrine 

Of  fruitful  Ceres,  charm  no  more  ; 
The  woven  wreaths  of  oak  and  pine 

Are  dust  along  the  Isthmian  shore. 

But  beauty  hath  its  homage  still, 

And  nature  holds  us  still  in  debt ; 
And  woman's  grace   and  household 

skill, 

And  manhood's  toil,  are  honored 
yet. 

And  we,  to-day,  amidst  our  flowers 
And  fruits,  have  come  to  own  again 

The  blessings  of  the  summer  hours, 
The  early  and  the  latter  rain ; 


328 


POEMS   AND    LYRICS. 


To  see  our  Father's  hand  once  more 
Reverse  for  us  the  plenteous  horn 

Of  autumn,  filled  and  running  o'er 
With  fruit,  and  flower,  and  golden 
corn! 

Once  more  the   liberal   year  laughs 

out 
O'er   richer   stores    than   gems    or 

gold; 
Once    more  with    harvest-song  and 

shout 
Is  Nature's  bloodless  triumph  told. 

Our  common  mother  rests  and  sings, 
Like    Ruth,    among   her    garnered 

sheaves ; 

Her  lap  is  full  of  goodly  things, 
Her   brow  is  bright  with   autumn 
leaves. 

O  favors  every  year  made  new ! 

O    gifts    with    rain    and   sunshine 

sent! 
The  bounty  overruns  our  due, 

The  fulness  shames  our  discontent. 

We  shut  our  eyes,  the  flowers  bloom 

on; 
We  murmur,  but  the  corn-ears  fill ; 


We    choose    the    shadow,    but    the 

sun 

That    casts    it    shines    behind    us 
still. 

God  gives  us  with  our  rugged  soil 
The  power  to  make  it  Eden-fair, 

And  richer  fruits  to  crown  our  toil 
Than  summer-wedded  islands  bear. 

Who  murmurs  at  his  lot  to-day? 
Who  scorns    his    native   fruit  and 

bloom? 
Or  sighs  for  dainties  far  away, 

Beside    the    bounteous    board    of 
home  ? 

Thank    Heaven,   instead,  that   Free- 
dom's arm 

Can  change  a  rocky  soil  to  gold,  — 
That  brave    and  generous  lives   can 

warm 
A  clime  with  northern  ices  cold. 

And  let  these  altars,  wreathed  with 
flowers 

And  piled  with  fruits,  awake  again 
Thanksgivings  for  the  golden  hours, 

The  early  and  the  latter  rain! 


THE   EXILE'S   DEPARTURE. 


329 


EARLY  AND  UNCOLLECTED  POEMS. 


THE   EXILE'S  DEPARTURE.1 

FOND   scenes,    which    delighted    my 

youthful  existence, 
With  feelings  of  sorrow  I  bid  ye 

adieu  — 
A  lasting  adieu!  for  now,  dim  in  the 

distance, 
The  shores  of  Hibernia  recede  from 

my  view. 
Farewell  to  the  cliffs,  tempest-beaten 

and  gray, 
Which   guard  the  lov'd  shores   of 

my  own  native  land  ; 
Farewell    to    the    village    and    sail- 

shadow'd  bay, 

The   forest-crown'd    hill    and    the 
water-wash'd  strand. 


I've    fought    for   my  country — I've 

braved  all  the  dangers 
That  throng  round  the  path  of  the 

warrior  in  strife ; 
I    now  must    depart   to    a  nation   of 

strangers, 
And  pass  in  seclusion  the  remnant 

of  life ; 
Far,  far,  from  the  friends  to  my  bosom 

most  dear, 
With  none  to  support  me  in  peril 

and  pain, 
And  none  but  the  stranger  to   drop 

the  sad  tear, 

On  the  grave  where  the  heart-broken 
Exile  is  lain. 


Friends  of  my  youth !    I  must  leave 

you  forever, 

And  hasten  to  dwell  in  a  region 
unknown :  — 

1  Whittier's  first  printed  poem,  published 
in  the  Newburyport  Free  Press,  June  8, 1826. 


Yet    time    cannot    change,    nor    the 

broad  ocean  sever, 
Hearts  firmly  united  and  tried  as 

our  own. 
Ah,  no !  though  I  wander,  all  sad  and 

forlorn, 
In   a  far    distant    land,    yet    shall 

memory  trace, 
When  far  o'er  the  ocean's  white  surges 

I  'm  borne, 

The  scene  of  past  pleasures,  —  my 
own  native  place. 

Farewell,  shores  of  Erin,  green  land 

of  my  fathers  — 
Once  more,  and  forever,  a  mournful 

adieu! 
For   round   thy   dim    headlands    the 

ocean-mist  gathers, 
And    shrouds    the    fair  isle    I    no 

longer  can  view. 
I  go — but  wherever  my  footsteps  I 

bend, 
For  freedom  and  peace  to  my  own 

native  isle, 
And    contentment   and  joy   to    each 

warm-hearted  friend, 
Shall  be  the  heart's  prayer  of  the 
lonely  Exile ! 

HAVERHILL,  June  i,  1826. 


THE   DEITY.2 
i  KINGS  xix.  ii. 

THE  prophet  stood 
On    the   dark   mount,   and    saw   the 

tempest  cloud 
Pour   the   fierce  whirlwind    from   its 

dark  reservoir 

2  Whittier's  second  printed  poem,  pub- 
lished in  the  Newburyport  Free  Press, 
June  22,  1826. 


330 


EARLY   AND   UNCOLLECTED   POEMS. 


Of  congregated  gloom.  The  moun- 
tain oak, 

Torn  from  the  earth,  heav'd  high  its 
roots  where  once 

Its  branches  wav'd.  The  fir-tree's 
shapely  form, 

Smote  by  the  tempest,  lash'd  the 
mountain's  side. 

—  Yet,  calm  in  conscious  purity,  the 

seer 

Beheld  the  scene  of  desolation  —  for 
Th1  Eternal  Spirit  mov'd  not  in  the 

storm ! 

The  tempest  ceas'd! —  the  cavern' d 
earthquake  burst 

Forth  from  its  prison,  and  the  moun- 
tain rock'd 

E'en  to  its  base :  the  topmost  crags 
were  thrown, 

With  fearful  crashing,  down  its  shud- 
dering sides. 

—  Unaw'd,    the     prophet     saw    and 

heard  —  he  felt 

Not  in  the  earthquake  mov'd  the  God 
of  Heaven ! 

The  murmurs  died  away!  —  and  from 

the  height 
(Rent  by  the  storm,  and  shattered  by 

the  shock), 
Rose    far    and   clear   a    pyramid    of 

flame, 

Mighty  and  vast!  — the  startled  moun- 
tain deer 
Shrunk   from   its   glare   and  cower'd 

within  the  shade. 
The  wild  fowl  shriek'd! —  Yet,  even 

then,  the  seer 
Untrembling  stood,  and  mark'd  the 

fearful  glow  — 
For  Israel's  God  came  not  within  the 

flame! 

The  fiery  beacon  sunk!  —  a  still  small 
voice 

Now  caught  the  prophet's  ear.  Its 
awful  tones, 

Unlike  to  human  sounds,  at  once  con- 
veyed 


Deep  awe  and  reverence  to  his  pious 

heart. 
Then  bow'd  the  holy  man!  his  face 

he  veird 
Within  his  mantle,  and  in  meekness 

owned 
The  presence  of  his  God  —  discern'd 

not  in 
The  storm,   the   earthquake,   or  the 

mighty  flame, 
But  in  the  still  small  voice ! 

HAVERHILL,  nth  of  6th  month,  1826. 


TO   THE   "RUSTIC  BARD." 

[The  following  poem,  which  was  written 
by  Whittier  in  January,  1828,  is  not  to  be 
found  in  any  of  his  published  works.  The 
"  Rustic  Bard  "  was  Robert  Dinsmoor  of 
Windham,  N.H.,  of  whom  a  sketch  may  be 
found  in  Whittier's  prose  works  ("  Old  Por- 
traits and  Modern  Sketches  ").  The  poem 
is  in  imitation  of  the  Scottish  dialect,  in 
which  the  "  Rustic  Bard  "  wrote.] 

HEALTH  to  the  hale  auld  "Rustic 

Bard  " ! 

Gin  ye  a  poet  wad  regard 
Who  deems  it  honor  to  be  ca'd 

Yere  rhymin'  brither, 
'T  would  gie  his  muse  a  rich  reward  — 

He  asks  nae  ither. 

My  muse,  an  inexperienced  hizzie, 
Wi'  pride  an'  self-importance  dizzy, 
O'  skill  to  rhyme  it  free  an'  easy 

Is  na  possessor ; 
But  yours  has  been  a  lang  time  busy  — 

An  auld  transgressor. 

Yes,  lang  an'  weel  ye've  held   your 

way, 

An',  spite  o'  a'  that  critics  say, 
The  memory  of  your  rustic  lay 

Shall  still  be  dear, 
An'  wi'  yere  name  to  latest  day 

Be  cherish'd  here. 

An'  though  the  cauld  an'  heartless 
sneer, 


THE   ALBUM. 


331 


An'  critics  urge  their  wordy  weir, 
An1    graceless    scoundrels    taunt   an1 
jeer, 

E'en  let  them  do  it ; 
They  canna  mak'  the  muse  less  dear 

To  ony  poet. 

But   why   should   poets    "fash    their 

thumb  "  ? 

E'en  let  the  storms  o'  fortune  come ; 
Maun  they  alane  be  left  in  gloom, 

To  grope  an'  stumble, 
An'  wear  the  garb  fate's  partial  loom 

Has  wove  maist  humble? 

No !    up    \vi'    pride  —  wha    cares    a 

feather 
What   fools    may   chance  to   say,   or 

whether 
They   praise   or   spurn   our    rhymin' 

blether,  — 

Laud  or  abuse  us, — 
While   conscience   keeps  within  fair 

weather, 

An1  wise  men  roose  us  ? 

Then  let  us  smile  when  fools  assail 

us, 

To  answer  them  will  not  avail  us  ; 
Contempt  alane  should  meet  the  rail- 
ers,  — 

It  deals  a  blow, 

When  weapons  like  their  ain  wad  fail 
us, 

To  cower  the  foe. 

But  whyles  they  need  a  castigation, 
Shall  either  name  or  rank  or  station 
Protect  them  frae  the  flagellation 

Sae  muckle  needed? 
Shall  vice  an'  crimes  that  "taint  the 
nation  " 

Pass  on  unheeded? 

No!  let  the  muse  her  trumpet  take, 
Till  auld  offenders  learn  to  shake 
An'  tremble  when  they  hear  her  wake 

Her  tones  o'  thunder; 
Till  pride  an'  bloated  ignorance  quake, 

An'  gawkies  wonder. 


For  ye,  auld  bard,  though  long  years 

ye  Ve  been 

An  actor  in  life's  weary  scene, 
WT  saul  erect  an'  fearless  mien 

Ye  've  held  your  way  ; 
An'  O!  may  Heaven  preserve  serene 

Your  closin'  day. 

Farewell!  the  poet's  hopes  an'  fears 
May  vanish  frae  this  vale  o'  tears, 
An'  curtain'd  wi'  forgotten  years 

His  muse  may  lie  ; 
But  virtue's  form  unscaith'd  appears  — 

It  canna  die! 


THE   ALBUM. 

THE  dark-eyed  daughters  of  the  Sun, 
At  morn  and  evening  hours, 

O'erhung  their  graceful  shrines  alone 
With  wreaths  of  dewy  flowers. 

Not  vainly  did  those  fair  ones  cull 
Their  gifts  by  stream  and  wood  ; 

The  Good  is  always  beautiful, 
The  Beautiful  is  good! 

We  live  not  in  their  simple  day, 
Our  Northern  blood  is  cold, 

And  few  the  offerings  which  we  lay 
On  other  shrines  than  Gold. 

With  Scripture  texts  to  chill  and  ban 
The  heart's  fresh  morning  hours, 

The  heavy-footed  Puritan 

Goes  trampling  down  the  flowers ; 

Nor  thinks  of  Him  who  sat  of  old 

Where  Syrian  lilies  grew, 
And  from  their  mingling  shade  and 
gold 

A  holy  lesson  drew. 

Yet  lady,  shall  this  book  of  thine, 
Wliere  Love  his  gifts  has  brought, 

Become  to  thee  a  Persian  shrine, 
O'erhung  with  flow.ers  of  thought. 


332 


EARLY  AND   UNCOLLECTED    POEMS. 


MOUNT   AGIOCHOOK. 

GRAY  searcher  of  the  upper  air! 

There 's    sunshine   on   thy  ancient 

walls  — 
A  crown  upon  thy  forehead  bare  — 

A  flashing  on  thy  water-falls  — 
A  rainbow  glory  in  the  cloud, 
Upon  thine  awful  summit  bowed, 

Dim  relic  of  the  recent  storm ! 
And  music,  from  the  leafy  shroud 

Which  wraps    in   green   thy  giant 

form, 
Mellowed  and  softened  from  above, 

Steals  down  upon  the  listening  ear, 
Sweet  as  the  maiden's  dream  of  love, 

With    soft   tones    melting    on    her 
ear. 

The  time  has  been,  gray  mountain, 

when 
Thy  shadows  veiled  the  red  man's 

home ; 

And  over  crag  and  serpent  den, 
And  wild  gorge,  where  the  steps  of 

men 

In  chase  or  battle  might  not  come, 
The  mountain  eagle  bore  on  high 
The  emblem  of  the  free  of  soul ; 
And  midway  in  the  fearful  sky 
Sent  back  the  Indian's  battle-cry, 
Or  answered  to  the  thunder's  roll. 

The  wigwam   fires   have   all   burned 
out  — 

The  moccasin  hath  left  no  track  — 
Nor  wolf  nor  wild-deer  roam  about 

The  Saco  or  the  Merrimack. 
And  thou  that  liftest  up  on  high 
Thine  awful  barriers  to  the  sky, 

Art  not  the  haunted  mount  of  old, 
When  on  each  crag  of  blasted  stone 
Some/nountain-spirit  found  a  throne, 

And  shrieked   from  out  the  thick 

cloud-fold, 

And  answered  to  the  Thunderer's  cry 
When  rolled  the  cloud  of  tempest  by, 
And  jutting  rock  and  riven  branch 
Went  down  before  the  avalanche. 


The  Father  of  our  people  then 
Upon  thy  awful  summit  trocl, 
And  the  red  dwellers  of  the  glen 
Bowed  down   before   the    Indian's 

God. 
There,  when  His  shadow  veiled  the 

sky, 
The   Thunderer's  voice   was    long 

and  loud, 
And  the  red  flashes  of  His  eye 

Were  pictured  on  the  o'erhanging 
cloud. 

The  Spirit  moveth  there  no  more, 

The  dwellers  of  the  hill  have  gone, 
The  sacred  groves  are  trampled  o'er, 
And  footprints  mar  the  altar-stone. 
The   white    man   climbs    thy   tallest 

rock 
And   hangs   him   from   the   mossy 

steep, 
Where,  trembling  to  the  cloud-fire's 

shock, 

Thy  ancient  prison-walls  unlock, 
And  captive  waters  leap  to  light, 
And  dancing  down  from  height  to 

height, 
Pass  onward  to  the  far-off  deep. 

Oh,  sacred  to  the  Indian  seer, 

Gray  altar  of  the  days  of  old ! 
Still  are  thy  rugged  features  dear, 
As  when  unto  my  infant  ear 

The  legends  of  the  past  were  told. 
Tales    of    the    downward    sweeping 

flood, 

When  bowed  like  reeds  thy  ancient 
wood,  — 

Of  armed  hand  and  spectral  form, 
Of  giants  in  their  misty  shroud, 
And  voices  calling  long  and  loud 

In  the  drear  pauses  of  the  storm ! 
Farewell!     The    red    man's    face    is 
turned 

Toward  another  hunting-ground ; 
For  where  the  council-fire  has  burned, 

And    o'er    the    sleeping    warrior's 

mound 

Another  fire  is  kindled  now  : 
Its  light  is  on  the  white  man's  brow! 


METACOM. 


333 


The     hunter     race     have     passed 

away  — 

Ay,  vanished  like  the  morning  mist, 
Or     dew-drops     by     the     sunshine 

kissed,  — 
And  wherefore  should  the  red  man 

stay? 
1829.  

METACOM. 

RED  as  the  banner  which  enshrouds 
The   warrior-dead   when    strife    is 

done, 
A  broken  mass  of  crimson  clouds 

Hung  over  the  departed  sun. 
The  shadow  of  the  western  hill 
Crept  swiftly  down,  and  darkly  still, 
As  if  a  sullen  wave  of  night 
Were  rushing  on  the  pale  twilight, 
The  forest-openings  grew  more  dim, 
As  glimpses  of  the  arching  blue 
And    waking     stars     came     softly 

through 

The  rifts  of  many*a  giant  limb. 
Above  the  wet  and  tangled  swamp 
White    vapors    gathered    thick    and 

damp, 

And  through  their  cloudy  curtaining 
Flapped   many  a  brown  and   dusky 

wing  — 

Pinions  that  fan  the  moonless  dun, 
But  fold  them  at  the  rising  sun ! 

Beneath  the  closing  veil  of  night, 

And  leafy  bough  and  curling  fog, 
With    his    few    warriors    ranged    in 

sight  — 
Scarred  relics  of  his  latest  fight  — 

Rested  the  fiery  Wampanoag. 
He  leaned  upon  his  loaded  gun, 
Warm  with  its  recent  work  of  death, 
And,  save  the  struggling  of  his  breath 
That,  slow  and  hard,  and  long-sup- 
pressed, 
Shook    the   damp   folds   around    his 

breast, 

An  eye,  that  was  unused  to  scan 
The  sterner  moods  of  that  dark  man, 
Had  deemed  his  tall  and  silent  form 


With  hidden  passion  fierce  and  warm, 
With  that  fixed  eye,  as  still  and  dark 
As  clouds  which  veil  their  lightning- 
spark  — 

That  of  some  forest-champion 
Whom    sudden    death    had    passed 

upon  — 

A  giant  frozen  into  stone. 
Son  of  the  throned  Sachem,  —  thou, 

The  sternest  of  the  forest  kings,  — 
Shall   the  scorned  pale-one   trample 

now, 
Unambushed,     on     thy     mountain's 

brow  — 
Yea,  drive  his  vile  and  hated  plough 

Among  thy  nation's  holy  things, 
Crushing  the  warrior-skeleton 
In  scorn  beneath  his  armed  heel, 
And  not  a  hand  be  left  to  deal 
A  kindred  vengeance  fiercely  back, 
And    cross    in    blood    the    Spoiler's 

track  ? 

He  started,  —  for  a  sudden  shot 
Came  booming  through  the  forest- 
trees  — 

The  thunder  of  the  fierce  Yengeese  : 
It  passed  away,  and  injured  not ; 
But,  to  the  Sachem's  brow  it  brought 
The  token  of  his  lion  thought. 
He  stood  erect  —  his  dark  eye  burned, 
As  if  to  meteor-brightness  turned ; 
And  o'er  his  forehead  passed  the  frown 
Of  an  archangel  stricken  down, 
Ruined  and  lost,  yet  chainless  still  — 
Weakened  of  power  but  strong  of  will! 
It  passed  —  a  sudden  tremor  came 
Like  ague  o'er  his  giant  frame, — 
It  was  not  terror  —  he  had  stood 
For  hours,  with  death  in  grim  at- 
tendance, 

When  moccasins  grew  stiff  with  blood. 
And  through  the  clearing's  midnight 

flame, 

Dark,  as  a  storm,  the  Pequod  came, 
His  red  right  arm  their  strong  de- 
pendence— 
When    thrilling    through    the    forest 

gloom 
The  onset  cry  of  "  Metacom ! " 

Rang  on  the  red  and  smoky  air!  — 


334 


EARLY  AND   UNCOLLECTED   POEMS. 


No  —  it  was  agony  which  passed 
Upon   his   soul  —  the    strong    man's 

last 
And  fearful  struggle  with  despair. 

He  turned  him  to  his  trustiest  one  — 
The  old  and  war-tried  Annawon  — 
"  Brother"  —  the  favored  warrior  stood 
In  hushed  and  listening  attitude  — 
"  This  night  the  Vision-Spirit  hath 
Unrolled  the  scroll  of  fate  before  me  ; 
And  ere  the  sunrise  cometh,  Death 
Will  wave  his  dusky  pinion  o'er  me! 
Nay,   start   not  —  well    I    know   thy 

faith: 

Thy  weapon  now  may  keep  its  sheath  ; 
But  when  the  bodeful  morning  breaks, 
And  the  green  forest  widely  wakes 

Unto  the  roar  of  Yengeese  thunder, 
Then,  trusted  brother,  be  it  thine 
To  burst  upon  the  foeman-'s  line 
And  rend  his  serried  strength  asunder. 
Perchance  thyself  and  yet  a  few 
Of  faithful  ones  may  struggle  through, 
And,  rallying  on  the  wooded  plain, 
Offer  up  in  Yengeese  blood 
An  offering  to  the  Indian's  God." 

Another  shot  —  a  sharp,  quick  yell. 

And  then  the  stifled  groan  of  pain, 
Told  that  another  red  man  fell,  — 

And  blazed  a  sudden  light  again 
Across  that  kingly  brow  and  eye, 
Like  lightning  on  a  clouded  sky,  — 
And   a   low   growl,  like    that   which 

thrills 

The  hunter  of  the  Eastern  hills, 
Burst  through  clenched  teeth  and 

rigid  lip  — 

And  when  the  Monarch  spoke  again, 
His  deep  voice  shook  beneath  its 

rein, 

And  wrath  and  grief  held  fellow- 
ship. 
"Brother!    methought   when   as   but 

now 

I  pondered  on  my  nation's  wrong, 
With  sadness  on  his  shadowy  brow 

My  father's  spirit  passed  along! 
He  pointed  to  the  far  southwest, 


Where  sunset's  gold  was  growing 
dim, 

And  seemed  to  beckon  me  to  him, 
And  to  the  forests  of  the  blest!  — 
My  father  loved  the  Yengeese,  when 
They  were  but  children,  shelterless  ; 
For  his  great  spirit  at  distress 
Melted  to  woman's  tenderness  — 
Nor  was  it  given  him  to  know 

That  children  whom  he  cherished 

then 

Would  rise  at  length,  like  armdd  men, 
To  work  his  people's  overthrow. 
Yet  thus  it  is  ;  —  the  God  before 

Whose  awful  shrine  the  pale  ones 

bow 
Hath  frowned  upon  and  given  o'er 

The  red  man  to  the  stranger  now!  — 
A  few  more  moons,  and  there  will  be 
No  gathering  to  the  council-tree  ; 
The   scorched   earth,  the   blackened 
log, 

The  naked  bones  of  warriors  slain, 

Be  the  sole  relics  which  remain 
Of  the  once  mighty  Wampanoag ! 
The  forests  of  our  hunting-land, 

With  all  their  old  and  solemn  green, 
Will  bow  before  the  Spoiler's  axe, 
The    plough    displace    the    hunter's 

tracks, 
And  the  tall  Yengeese  altar  stand 

Where   the   Great    Spirit's    shrine 
hath  been! 

"Yet,  brother,  from  this  awful  hour 

The  dying  curse  of  Metacom 
Shall  linger  with  abiding  power 

Upon  the  spoilers  of  my  home. 

The  fearful  veil  of  things  to  come 

By  Kitchtan's  hand  is  lifted  from 
The  shadows  of  the  embryo  years  ; 

And  I  can  see  more  clearly  through 
Than  ever  visioned  Powwow  did, 
For  all  the  future  comes  unbid 

Yet  welcome  to  my  trance'd  view, 
As  battle-yell  to  warrior-ears ! 
From  stream  and  lake  and  hunting- 
hill 

Our    tribes     may    vanish    like    a 
dream, 


THE   FRATRICIDE. 


335 


And    even    my    dark    curse    may 
seem 

Like    idle    winds    when    Heaven    is 

still  — 
No  bodefiil  harbinger  of  ill, 

But  fiercer  than  the  downright  thun- 
der 

When  yawns  the  mountain-rock  asun- 
der, 

And  riven  pine  and  knotted  oak 

Are  reeling  to  the  fearful  stroke, 
That  curse  shall  work  its  master's 
will! 

The  bed  of  yon  blue  mountain  stream 

Shall  pour  a  darker  tide  than  rain  — 

The   sea   shall    catch    its    blood-red 
stain, 

And  broadly  on  its  banks  shall  gleam 
The  steel  of  those  who  should  be 
brothers  — 

Yea,  those    whom   one   fond   parent 
nursed 

Shall  meet  in  strife,  like  fiends  ac- 
cursed, 

And   trample   down   the   once  loved 
form, 

While    yet    with    breathing    passion 

warm, 
As  fiercely  as  they  would  another's ! " 

The  morning  star  sat  dimly  on 
The  lighted  eastern  horizon  — 
The  deadly  glare  of  levelled  gun 

Came  streaking  through   the  twi- 
light haze, 

And  naked  to  its  reddest  blaze 
A  hundred  warriors  sprang  in  view : 

One  dark  red  arm  was  tossed  on 

high  — 
One  giant  shout  came  hoarsely  through 

The  clangor  and  the  charging  cry, 
Just  as  across  the  scattering  gloom, 
Red  as  the  naked  hand  of  Doom, 

The  Yengeese  volley  hurtled  by  — 
The  arm  —  the  voice  of  Metacom!  — 

One  piercing  shriek  —  one  vengeful 

yell, 
Sent  like  an  arrow  to  the  sky, 

Told  when  the  hunter-monarch  fell! 
1829. 


THE    FRATRICIDE. 

[In  the  recently  published  "History  of 
Wyoming,"  —  a  valley  rendered  classic 
ground  by  the  poetry  of  Campbell,  —  in 
an  account  of  the  attack  of  Brandt  and 
Butler  on  the  settlements  in  1778,  a  fear- 
ful circumstance  is  mentioned.  A  Tory, 
who  had  joined  the  Indians  and  British, 
discovered  his  own  brother,  whilst  pursu- 
ing the  Americans,  and,  deaf  to  his  en- 
treaties, deliberately  presented  his  rifle  and 
shot  him  dead  on  the  spot.  The  murderer 
fled  to  Canada.] 

HE  stood  on  the  brow  of  the  well- 
known  hill, 

Its  few  gray  oaks  moan'd  over  him 
still  — 

The  last  of  that  forest  which  cast  the 
gloom 

Of  its  shadow  at  eve  o'er  his  child- 
hood's home ; 

And  the  beautiful  valley  beneath  him 
lay 

With  its  quivering  leaves,  and  its 
streams  at  play, 

And  the  sunshine  over  it  all  the 
while 

Like  the  golden  shower  of  the  Eastern 
isle. 

He  knew  the  rock  with  its  fingering 
vine, 

And  its  gray  top  touch'd  by  the  slant 
sunshine, 

And  the  delicate  stream  which  crept 
beneath 

Soft  as  the  flow  of  an  infant's  breath  ; 

And  the  flowers  which  lean'd  to  the 
West  wind's  sigh, 

Kissing  each  ripple  which  glided  by ; 

And  he  knew  every  valley  and  wooded 
swell, 

For  the  visions  of  childhood  are  treas- 
ured well. 

Why  shook  the  old  man  as  his  eye 

glanced  down 
That  narrow  ravine  where  the  rude 

cliffs  frown. 


336 


EARLY   AND   UNCOLLECTED   POEMS. 


With  their  shaggy  brows  and  their 

teeth  of  stone, 
And  their  grim  shade  back  from  the 

sunlight  thrown? 
What  saw  he  there  save  the  dreary 

glen, 
Where  the  shy  fox  crept  from  the  eye 

of  men, 
And  the  great  owl  sat  in  the  leafy 

limb 
That  the  hateful  sun  might  not  look 

on  him? 

Fix'd,  glassy,  and   strange  was    that 

old  man's  eye. 

As  if  a  spectre  were  stealing  by, 
And  glared  it  still  on  that  narrow  dell 
Where  thicker  and  browner  the  twi- 
light fell ; 

Yet  at  every  sigh  of  the  fitful  wind, 
Or   stirring   of    leaves    in   the   wood 

behind, 

His  wild  glance  wander1  d  the  land- 
scape o'er, 

Then  fix'd  on  that  desolate  dell  once 
more. 

Oh,  who   shall   tell  of  the  thoughts 

which  ran 
Through   the    dizzied   brain   of  that 

gray  old  man  ? 
His     childhood's     home  —  and     his 

father's  toil  — 
And  his  sister's  kiss  —  and  his  mother's 

smile  — 

And  his  brother's  laughter  and  game- 
some mirth, 
At  the  village  school  and  the  winter 

hearth  — 
The  beautiful   thoughts  of  his  early 

time, 
Ere  his  heart  grew  dark  with  its  later 

crime. 

And   darker  and   wilder  his   visions 

came 
Of  the  deadly  feud  and  the  midnight 

flame, 
Of  the  Indian's  knife  with  its  slaughter 

red, 


Of  the  ghastly  forms  of  the  scalpless 

dead, 
Of  his  own  fierce  deeds  in  that  fearful 

hour 
When  the  terrible  Brandt  was  forth 

in  power,  — 
And   he   clasp'd  his   hands   o'er  his 

burning  eye 
To  shadow  the  vision  which  glided 

by. 

It  came  with  the  rush  of  the  battle- 
storm  — 
With  a  brother's  shaken  and  kneeling 

form, 
And  his  prayer  for  life  when  a  brother's 

arm 

Was  lifted  above  him  for  mortal  harm, 
And  the  fiendish  curse,  and  the  groan 

of  death, 
And  the   welling  of  blood,  and  the 

gurgling  breath, 
And   the   scalp   torn  off  while   each 

nerve  could  feel 
The  wrenching  hand  and  the  jagged 

steel ! 

And   the   old   man  groan'd  —  for  he 

saw,  again, 
The  mangled  corse  of  his   kinsman 

slain, 
As  it  lay  where  his  hand  had  hurl'd 

it  then, 
At  the  shadow'd  foot  of  that  fearful 

glen!  — 
And  it  rose  erect,  with  the  death-pang 

grim, 
And   pointed   its    bloodied  finger   at 

him !  — 
And  his  heart  grew  cold  —  and  the 

curse  of  Cain 
Burn'd   like   a  fire  in  the  old  man's 

brain. 

Oh,   had   he   not   seen    that    spectre 

rise 
On   the   blue   of  the  cold  Canadian 

skies?  — 
From   the  lakes  which  sleep   in  the 

ancient  wood, 


ETERNITY. 


337 


It  had  risen  to  whisper  its  tale  of 
blood, 

And  followed  his  bark  to  the  sombre 
shore, 

And  glared  by  night  through  the  wig- 
wam door ; 

And  here  —  on  his  own  familiar  hill  — 

It  rose  on  his  haunted  vision  still! 

Whose    corse   was    that   which    the 

morrow's  sun, 
Through  the  opening  boughs,  look'd 

calmly  on? 
There  where  those  who  bent  o'er  that 

rigid  face 
Who  well  in  its  darkened  lines  might 

trace 
The  features  of  him  who,  a  traitor, 

fled 
From  a  brother  whose  blood  himself 

had  shed, 
And  there  —  on   the   spot  where  he 

strangely  died  — 

They  made  the  grave  of  the  Fratricide ! 
1831. 

ETERNITY. 

[This  poem  was  written  by  Mr.  Whittier 
in  1831,  and  was  printed  in  the  New 
England  Review,  which  paper  he  was  then 
editing.  It  was  signed  "  Adrian,"  as  were 
many  of  his  early  poems.] 

BOUNDLESS     Eternity!     the    winged 

sands 
That  mark  the  silent  lapse  of  flitting 

time 
Are  not  for  thee ;  thine  awful  empire 

stands 
From    age    to   age,   unchangeable, 

sublime : 
Thy     domes     are     spread     where 

thought  can  never  climb, 
In  clouds  and  darkness,  where  vast 

pillars  rest. 
I    may  not   fathom   thee:  'twould 

seem  a  crime 

Thy  being  of  its  mystery  to  divest, 
Or  boldly  lift  thine  awful  veil  with 
hands  unblest. 


Thy  ruins  are  the  wrecks  of  systems ; 

suns 
Blaze  a  brief  space  of  ages,  and  are 

not; 
Worlds  crumble  and  decay,  creation 

runs 
To   waste  —  then  perishes   and  is 

forgot ; 
Yet   thou,  all   changeless,  heedest 

not  the  blot. 
Heaven  speaks  once  more  in  thunder; 

empty  space 
Trembles  and  wakes ;  new  worlds 

in  ether  flit, 
Teeming  with  new  creative  life,  and 

trace 

Their  mighty  circles,  such  as  others 
shall  displace. 

Thine    age    is    youth,   thy   youth    is 

hoary  age, 

Ever  beginning,  never  ending,  thou 
Bearest    inscribed    upon    thy   ample 

page, 

Yesterday,  forever,  but  as  now 
Thou  art,  thou  hast  been,  shalt  be : 

though 

I  feel  myself  immortal,  when  on  thee 
I   muse,   I   shrink   to  nothingness, 

and  bow 

Myself  before  thee,  dread  Eternity, 
With  God  coeval,  coexisting,  still  to 
be. 

I  go  with  thee  till  Time  shall  be  no 

more, 

I  stand  with   thee  on  Time's   re- 
motest verge, 
Ten    thousand   years,   ten   thousand 

times  told  o'er ; 
Still,    still    with   thee    my   onward 

course  I  urge ; 

And  now  no  longer  hear  the  end- 
less surge 
Of  Time's  light  billows  breaking  on 

the  shore 
Of    distant   earth ;    no    more    the 

solemn  dirge  — 

Requiem   of  worlds,  when  such  are 
numbered  o'er  — 


338 


EARLY   AND   UNCOLLECTED   POEMS. 


Steals  by:  still  thou  art  moving  on 
forevermore. 

From  that  dim  distance  would  I  turn 

to  gaze 
With  fondly  searching  glance,  upon 

the  spot 
Of  brief  existence,  where  I  met  the 

blaze 
Of  morning,  bursting  on  my  humble 

cot, 
And    gladness    whispered    of    my 

happy  lot ; 
And  now  't  is  dwindled  to  a  point  — 

a  speck  — 
And  now 'tis  nothing,  and  my  eye 

may  not 

Longer  distinguish  it  amid  the  wreck 
Of  worlds   in    ruins,   crushed  at  the 
Almighty's  beck. 

Time  —  what  is  Time  to  thee  ?  a  pass- 
ing thought 
To   twice   ten    thousand    ages  —  a 

faint  spark 
To  twice  ten  thousand  suns ;  a  fibre 

wrought 

Into  the  web  of  infinite  —  a  cork 
Balanced     against    a    world:     we 

hardly  mark 
Its  being  —  even  its  name  hath  ceased 

to  be; 
Thy  wave  hath  swept  it  from  us, 

and  thy  dark 

Mantle  of  years,  in  dim  obscurity 
Hath   shrouded   it  around:    Time  — 
what  is  Time  to  thee! 


ISABELLA  OF  AUSTRIA. 

["  Isabella,  Infanta  of  Parma,  and  consort 
of  Joseph  of  Austria,  predicted  her  own 
death,  immediately  after  her  marriage  with 
the  Emperor.  Amidst  the  gayety  and 
splendor  of  Vienna  and  Presburg,  she  was 
reserved  and  melancholy  ;  she  believed  that 
Heaven  had  given  her  a  view  of  the  future, 
and  that  her  child,  the  namesake  of  the 
great  Maria  Theresa,  would  perish  with 
her.  Her  prediction  was  fulfilled."] 


MIDST  the  palace-bowers  of  Hungary, 

—  imperial  Presburg's  pride,  — 
With   the   noble-born   and   beautiful 

assembled  at  her  side, 
She  stood,  beneath  the  summer  heaven, 

—  the  soft  winds  sighing  on, 
Stirring  the  green  and  arching  boughs, 

like  dancers  in  the  sun. 
The  beautiful  pomegranate's  gold,  the 

snowy  orange-bloom, 
The  lotus  and  the  creeping  vine,  the 

rose's  meek  perfume, 
The  willow  crossing  with   its   green 

some  statue's  marble  hair,  — 
All  that   might   charm   th'   exquisite 

sense,  or  light  the  soul,  was  there. 

But  she  —  a  monarch's  treasured  one 

—  lean'd  gloomily  apart, 

With  her  dark  eye  tearfully  cast  down 
and  a  shadow  on  her  heart. 

Young,  beautiful,  and  dearly  loved, 
what  sorrow  hath  she  known? 

Are  not  the  hearts  and  swords  of  all 
held  sacred  as  her  own? 

Is  not  her  lord  the  kingliest  in  battle- 
field or  bovver?  — 

The  foremost  in  the  council-hall,  or 
at  the  banquet  hour? 

Is  not  his  love  as  pure  and  deep  as 
his  own  Danube's  tide? 

And  wherefore  in  her  princely  home 
weeps  Isabel,  his  bride? 

She  raised  her  jewell'd  hand  and  flung 

her  veiling  tresses  back, 
Bathing    its    snowy   tapering   within 

their  glossy  black. — 
A  tear  fell  on  the  orange  leaves;  — 

rich  gem  and  mimic  blossom, 
And  fringed  robe  shook  fearfully  upon 

her  sighing  bosom : 
"  Smile  on,  smile  on,"  she  murmur'd 

low,  "  for  all  is  joy  around, 
Shadow  and  sunshine,  stainless  sky, 

soft  airs,  and  blossom'd  ground  ; 
'T  is  meet  the  light  of  heart  should 

smile  when  nature's  brow  is  fair. 
And  melody  and  fragrance  meet,  twin 

sisters  of  the  air! 


ISABELLA  OF  AUSTRIA. 


339 


•'  But  ask  not  me  to  share  with  you 
the  beauty  of  the  scene  — 

The  fountain-fall,  mosaic  walk,  and 
tessellated  green  ; 

And  point  not  to  the  mild  blue  sky, 
or  glorious  summer  sun  : 

I  know  how  very  fair  is  all  the  hand 
of  God  hath  done  — 

The  hills,  the  sky,  the  sun-lit  cloud, 
the  fountain  leaping  forth, 

The  swaying  trees,  the  scented  flow- 
ers, the  dark  green  robes  of 
earth  — 

I  love  them  still ;  yet  I  have  learn'd 
to  turn  aside  from  all, 

And  never  more  my  heart  must  own 
their  sweet  but  fatal  thrall ! 


whose  mighty  name  I  bear, 
And  closer  to  my  bursting  heart  his 

hallow'd  image  wear ; 
And  I  could  watch  our  sweet  young 

flower,  unfolding  day  by  day, 
And    taste    of    that    unearthly    bliss 

which  mothers  only  may ; 
But  no,  I  may  not  cling  to  earth  — 

that  voice  is  in  my  ear, 
That  shadow  lingers    by  my  side  — 

the  death-wail  and  the  bier, 
The  cold  and  starless  night  of  death 

where  day  may  never  beam, 
The  silence  and   the  loathsomeness, 

the  sleep  which  hath  no  dream ! 

"O   God!    to  leave   this   fair   bright 

world,   and,   more    than   all,   to 

know 
The  moment  when  the  Spectral  One 

shall  deal  his  fearful  blow ; 
To  know  the  day,  the  very  hour ;  to 

feel  the  tide  roll  on  ; 
To  shudder  at  the  gloom  before,  and 

weep  the  sunshine  gone  ; 
To  count  the  days,  the  few  short  days, 

of  light  and  life  and  breath,  — 
Between  me  and  the  noisome  grave  — 

the  voiceless  home  of  death,  — 
Alas!  —  if,    knowing,    feeling    this,    I 

murmur  at  my  doom, 


Let  not  thy  frowning,   O   my  God ! 
lend  darkness  to  the  tomb. 

"  Oh,  I  have  borne  my  spirit  up,  and 

smiled  amid  the  chill 
Remembrance   of  my  certain  doom, 

which  lingers  with  me  still : 
I  would  not  cloud  our  fair  child's  brow, 

nor  let  a  tear-drop  dim 
The  eye  that  met  my  wedded  lord's, 

lest  it  should  sadden  him. 
But  there  are  moments  when  the  gush 

of  feeling  hath  its  way  ; 
That  hidden  tide  of  unnamed  woe  nor 

fear  nor  love  may  stay. 
Smile  on,  smile  on,  light-hearted  ones, 

your  sun  of  joy  is  high  ; 
Smile  on,  and   leave  the  doom'd  of 

Heaven  alone  to  weep  and  die." 


A  funeral  chant  was  wailing  through 

Vienna's  holy  pile ; 
A  coffin  with  its  gorgeous  pall  was 

borne  along  the  aisle ; 
The  banners  of  a  kingly  race  waved 

high  above  the  dead  ; 
A  mighty  band  of  mourners  came  — 

a  king  was  at  its  head, 
A  youthful  king,  with  mournful  tread 

and  dim  and  tearful  eye  — 
He  had  not  dream'd  that  one  so  pure 

as  his  fair  bride  could  die ; 
And  sad  and  wild  above  the  throng 

the  funeral  anthem  rung  : 
"  Mourn   for    the    hope   of    Austria ! 

Mourn  for  the  loved  and  young! " 

The  wail  went  up  from  other  lands  — 
the  valleys  of  the  Hun, 

Fair  Parma  with  its  orange  bowers 
and  hills  of  vine  and  sun  ; 

The  lilies  of  imperial  France  droop'd 
as  the  sound  went  by, 

The  long  lament  of  cloister  d  Spain 
was  mingled  with  the  cry  ; 

The  dwellers  in  Colorno's  halls,  the 
Slowak  at  his  cave, 

The  bow'd  at  the  Escurial,  the  Mag- 
yar sternly  brave  — 


340 


EARLY  AND   UNCOLLECTED   POEMS. 


All  wept  the  early-stricken  flower,  and 
burst  from  every  tongue : 

"  Mourn  for  the  dark-eyed  Isabel ! 
Mourn  for  the  loved  and  young ! " 

1831.  

STANZAS. 

["  Art  thou  beautiful  ?  —  Live,  then,  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  curious  make  and  frame 
of  thy  creation  ;  and  let  the  beauty  of  thy 
person  teach  thee  to  beautify  thy  mind  with 
holiness,  the  ornament  of  the  beloved  of 
God."  — WILLIAM  PENN.] 

BIND  up  thy  tresses,  thou  beautiful  one, 
Of  brown  in  the  shadow  and  gold  in 

the  sun ! 
Free  should  their   delicate  lustre  be 

thrown 
O'er  a  forehead  more  pure  than  the 

Parian  stone  — 
Shaming   the   light  of  those    Orient 

pearls 
Which  bind  o'er  its  whiteness  thy  soft 

wreathing  curls. 

Smile  —  for  thy  glance  on  the  mirror 

is  thrown, 
And  the  face  of  an  angel  is  meeting 

thine  own! 

Beautiful  creature  —  I  marvel  not 
That   thy  cheek  a  lovelier  tint  hath 

caught ; 
And  the  kindling  light  of  thine  eye 

hath  told 
Of  a  dearer  wealth  than  the  miser's 

gold. 

Away,  away  —  there  is  danger  here  — 
A  terrible  phantom  is  bending  near ; 
Ghastly  and  sunken,  his  rayless  eye 
Scowls  on  thy  loveliness  scornfully  — 
With  no  human  look  —  with  no  human 

breath, 
He  stands  beside  thee,  —  the  haunter, 

DEATH  ! 

Fly !  but,  alas !  he  will  follow  still, 
Like  a  moonlight  shadow,  beyond  thy 
will; 


In  thy  noon-day  walk  —  in  thy  mid- 
night sleep, 

Close  at  thy  hand  will  that  phantom 
keep  — 

Still  in  thine  ear  shall   his  whispers 

Woe,  that  such  phantom  should  fol- 
low thee! 

In  the  lighted  hall  where  the  dancers 

go> 

Like  beautiful  spirits,  to  and  fro ; 
When  thy  fair  arms  glance  in  their 

stainless  white, 

Like  ivory  bathed  in  still  moonlight ; 
And  not  one  star  in  the  holy  sky 
Hath  a  clearer  light  than  thine  own 

blue  eye ! 

Oh,  then  —  even  then — he  will  follow 

thee, 

As  the  ripple  follows  the  bark  at  sea ; 
In  the  soften'd  light  —  in  the  turning 

dance  — 
He  will  fix  on  thine  his  dead,  cold 

glance  — 
The  chill  of  his  breath  on  thy  cheek 

shall  linger, 
And  thy  warm  blood  shrink  from  his 

icy  finger! 

And  yet  there  is  hope.  Embrace  it 
now, 

While  thy  soul  is  open  as  thy  brow ; 

While  thy  heart  is  fresh — 'while  its 
feelings  still 

Gush  clear  as  the  unsoil'd  mountain- 
rill — 

And  thy  smiles  are  free  as  the  airs  of 
spring, 

Greeting  and  blessing  each  breathing 
thing. 

When  the  after  cares  of  thy  life  shall 
come, 

When  the  bud  shall  wither  before  its 
bloom ; 

When  thy  soul  is  sick  of  the  empti- 
ness 

And  changeful  fashion  of  human  bliss  ; 


THE   MISSIONARY. 


341 


And    the   weary   torpor   of    blighted 

feeling 
Over  thy  heart  as  ice  is  stealing  — 

Then,  when  thy  spirit  is  turn'd  above, 
By  the  mild  rebuke  of  the  Chastene^s 

love  ; 
When   the    hope  of  that  joy  in  thy 

heart  is  stirr'd, 
Which    eye   hath    not   seen,  nor  ear 

hath  heard, — 
THEN  will  that  phantom  of  darkness 

be 
Gladness,  and  Promise,  and  Bliss  to 

thee. 
1832.  

THE    MISSIONARY. 

["  It  is  an  awful,  an  arduous  thing  to  root 
out  every  affection  for  earthly  things,  so  as 
to  live  only  for  another  world.  I  am  now- 
far,  very  far,  from  you  all ;  and  as  often  as 
I  look  around  and  see  the  Indian  scenery, 
I  sigh  to  think  of  the  distance  which  sepa- 
rates us."  —  Letters  of  Henry  Marty n  from 
India.] 

"  SAY,  whose  is  this  fair  picture,  which 

the  light 
From   the   unshutter'd  window  rests 

upon 

Even  as  a  lingering  halo  ?  —  Beautiful ! 
The  keen,  fine  eye  of  manhood,  and 

a  lip 

Lovely  as  that  of  Hylas,  and  impressed 
With  the  bright  signet  of  some  bril- 
liant thought  — 
That  broad  expanse  of  forehead,  clear 

and  high, 
Mark'd  visibly  with  the  characters  of 

mind, 
And  the  free  locks  around  it,  raven 

black, 
Luxuriant  and  unsilver'd —  who  was 

he?" 

A  friend,  a  more  than  brother.     In 

the  spring 

And  glory  of  his  being  he  went  forth 
From  the  embraces  of  devoted  friends, 


From  ease  and  quiet  happiness,  from 

more  — 
From  the  warm  heart  that  loved  him 

with  a  love 
Holier  than  earthly  passion,  and  to 

whom 

The  beauty  of  his  spirit  shone  above 
The  charms  of  perishing  nature.     He 

went  forth 
Strengthen'd     to    suffer — gifted    to 

subdue 
The    might   of   human   passion  —  to 

pass  on 

Quietly  to  the  sacrifice  of  all 
The  lofty  hopes  of  boyhood,  and  to 

turn 
The  high  ambition  written  on   that 

brow, 
From   its    first  dream  of  power  and 

human  fame, 

Unto  a  task  of  seeming  lowliness  — 
Yet    God-like   in    its   purpose.      He 

went  forth 
To  bind  the  broken  spirit  —  to  pluck 

back 

The  heathen  from  the  wheel  of  Jug- 
gernaut — 

To  place  the  spiritual  image  of  a  God 
Holy  and  just   and   true,  before  the 

eye 
Of  the  dark-minded  Brahmin  —  and 

unseal 

The  holy  pages  of  the  Book  of  Life, 
Fraught  with  sublimer  mysteries  than 

all 

The  sacred  tomes  of  Vedas  —  to  un- 
bind 
The  widow  from  her  sacrifice  —  and 

save 
The  perishing  infant  from  the  wor- 

shipp'd  river! 

"  And,  lady,  where  is  he  ?  "  He  slum- 
bers well 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  an  Indian 
palm. 

There  is  no  stone  above  his  grave. 
The  wind, 

Hot  from  the  desert,  as  it  stirs  the 
leaves 


342 


EARLY  AND   UNCOLLECTED    POEMS. 


Of  neighboring  bananas,  sighs  alone 
Over  his  place  of  slumber. 

«  God  forbid 
That  he  should  die  alone!"  —  Nay, 

not  alone. 
His  God  was  with  him  in  that  last 

dread  hour  — 
His  great  arm  underneath  him,  and 

His  smile 

Melting  into  a  spirit  full  of  peace. 
And  one  kind  friend,  a  human  friend, 

was  near  — 

One  whom  his  teachings  and  his  ear- 
nest prayers 
Had   snatch'd  as  from   the  burning. 

He  alone 
Felt  the  last  pressure  of  his  failing 

hand, 
Caught  the  last  glimpses  of  his  closing 

eye, 
And  laid  the  green  turf  over  him  with 

tears, 
And  left  him  with  his  God. 

"  And  was  it  well, 
Dear  lady,  that  this  noble  mind  should 

cast 
Its  rich  gifts  on  the  waters? — That  a 

heart 
Full  of  all  gentleness  and  truth  and 

love 

Should  wither  on  the  suicidal  shrine 
Of  a  mistaken  duty?     If  I  read 
Aright    the    fine    intelligence    which 

fills 
That  amplitude  of  brow,  and  gazes 

out 
Like  an  indwelling  spirit  from  that 

eye, 
He    might   have   borne    him    loftily 

among 
The  proudest  of  his  land,  and  with  a 

step 

Unfaltering  ever,  steadfast  and  secure, 
Gone  up  the   paths   of  greatness,  — 

bearing  still 

A  sister  spirit  with  him,  as  some  star, 
Pre-eminent  in  Heaven,  leads  steadily 

up 


A  kindred  watcher,  with   its  fainter 

beams 
Baptized  in  its  great  glory.     Was  it 

well 
That  all  this  promise  of  the  heart  and 

mind 
Should  perish  from  the  earth,  and  leave 

no  trace. 
Unfolding    like    the    Cereus    of    the 

clime 
Which  hath  its  sepulchre,  but  in  the 

night 
Of  pagan  desolation  —  was  it  well  ? " 

Thy  will  be  done,  O  Father! — it  was 

well. 
What  are  the  honors  of  a  perishing 

world 
GraspM   by   a   palsied   finger?  —  the 

applause 
Of  the  unthoughtful  multitude  which 

greets 
The  dull  ear  of  decay?  —  the  wealth 

that  loads 
The   bier   with    costly   drapery,   and 

shines 

In  tinsel  on  the  coffin,  and  builds  up 
The     cold     substantial     monument? 

Can  these 
Bear   up   the   sinking   spirit   in   that 

hour 
When  heart  and  flesh  are  failing,  and 

the  grave 
Is   opening   under   us?      Oh,    dearer 

then 
The  memory  of  a  kind  deed  done  to 

him 
Who   was   our  enemy,   one   grateful 

tear 

In  the  meek  eye  of  virtuous  suffering, 
One  smile  call'd  up  by  unseen  charity 
On  the  wan  cheek  of  hunger,  or  one 

prayer 

Breathed  from  the  bosom  of  the  peni- 
tent— 
The  stain?d  with  crime  and  outcast, 

unto  whom 
Our  mild  rebuke  and  tenderness  of 

love 
A  merciful  God  hath  blessed. 


THE  MISSIONARY. 


343 


"  But,  lady,  say, 
Did  he   not  sometimes  almost  sink 

beneath 

The  burden  of  his  toil,  and  turn  aside 
To  weep  above  his  sacrifice,  and  cast 
A  sorrowing  glance  upon  his  child- 
hood^ home  — 
Still  green  in  memory?    Clung  not  to 

his  heart 
Something  of  earthly  hope  uncruci- 

fied, 
Of  earthly  thought  unchasten'd  ?    Did 

he  bring 

Life's  warm  affections  to  the   sacri- 
fice- 
Its  loves,  hopes,  sorrows  —  and  be- 
come as  one 
Knowing  no  kindred  but  a  perishing 

world, 
No   love  but  of  the  sin-endangered 

soul, 
No  hope  but  of  the  winning  back  to 

life 
Of  the  dead  nations,  and  no  passing 

thought 
Save  of  the  errand  wherewith  he  was 

sent 
As  to  a  martyrdom?" 

Nay,  though  the  heart 
Be  consecrated  to  the  holiest  work 
Vouchsafed    to    mortal    effort,   there 

will  be 
Ties   of    the   earth    around    it,  and, 

through  all 

Its  perilous  devotion,  it  must  keep 
Its  own  humanity.     And  it  is  well. 
Else  why  wept  He,  who  with  our  na- 
ture veil'd 

The  spirit  of  a  God,  o'er  lost  Jeru- 
salem, 
And  the  cold  grave  of  Lazarus?    And 

why 
In  the  dim  garden  rose  his  earnest 

prayer, 

That  from  his  lips  the  cup  of  suffering 
Might  pass,  if  it  were  possible? 

My  friend 
Was  of  a  gentle  nature,  and  his  heart 


Gush'd  like  a  river-fountain   of  the 

hills, 
Ceaseless    and    lavish,    at    a    kindly 

smile, 

A  word  of  welcome,  or  a  tone  of  love. 
Freely  his  letters  to  his  friends  dis- 
closed 
His  yearnings  for  the  quiet  haunts  of 

home  — 
For  love  and  its  companionship,  and 

all 
The  blessings  left  behind  him;    yet 

above 
Its  sorrows  and  its  clouds  his  spirit 

rose, 
Tearful  and   yet   triumphant,  taking 

hold 

Of  the  eternal  promises  of  God, 
And  steadfast  in  its  faith.     Here  are 

some  lines 
Penn'd  in  his  lonely  mission-house, 

and  sent 

To  a  dear  friend  of  his  who  even  now 
Lingers  above  them  with  a  mournful 

Holding  them  well  nigh  sacred  —  as 

a  leaf 
Pluck'd  from  the  record  of  a  breaking 

heart. 

AN   EVENING   IN   BURMAH. 

A  night  of  wonder!  —  piled  afar 
With  ebon  feet  and  crests  of  snow, 

Like  Himalayah's  peaks,  which  bar 

The  sunset  and  the  sunset's  star 
From  half  the  shadow'd  vale  below, 

Volumed  and  vast  the  dense  clouds 
lie, 

And  over  them,  and  down  the  sky, 
Broadly  and  pale  the  lightnings  go. 

Above,  the  pleasant  moon  is  seen, 
Pale  journeyer  to  her  own  loved 

West! 

Like  some  bright  spirit  sent  between 
The  earth  and  heaven,  she  seems  to 

lean 

Wearily  on  the  cloud  and  rest ; 
And  light  from  her  unsullied  brow 


344 


EARLY  AND   UNCOLLECTED   POEMS. 


That  gloomy  cloud  is  gathering  now 
Along  each  wreathed  and  whitening 
crest. 

And   what   a   strength   of  light   and 

shade 

Is  checkering  all  the  earth  below! — 
And    through    the    jungle's  verdant 

braid 

Of  tangled  vine  and  wild  reed  made, 
What  blossoms   in  the  moonlight 

glow!  — 

The  Indian  rose's  loveliness, 
The  ceiba  with  its  crimson  dress, 
The  myrtle  with  its  bloom  of  snow. 

.And  flitting  in  the  fragrant  air, 
Or  nestling  in  the  shadowy  trees, 

A   thousand    bright-hued    birds    are 
there  — 

Strange  plumage  quivering,  wild  and 

rare, 
With  every  faintly-breathing  breeze  ; 

And,  wet  with  dew  from  roses  shed, 

The  Bulbul  droops  her  weary  head, 
Forgetful  of  her  melodies. 

Uprising  from  the  orange  leaves 

The  tall  pagoda's  turrets  glow ; 
O'er  graceful  shaft  and  fretted  eaves 
Its  verdant  web  the  myrtle  weaves. 
And    hangs    in   flowering   wreaths 

below ; 

And  where  the  cluster'd  palms  eclipse 

The  moonbeams,  from  its  marble  lips 

The  fountain's  silver  waters  flow. 

Yes,  all  is  lovely  —  earth  and  air  — 
As  aught  beneath  the  sky  may  be ; 

And  yet  my  thoughts  are  wandering 
where 

My  native  rocks  lie  bleak  and  bare  — 
A  weary  way  beyond  the  sea. 

The  yearning  spirit  is  not  here  ; 

It  lingers  on  a  spot  more  dear 

Than  India's  brightest   bowers  to 
me. 

Methinks    I    tread    the    well-known 
street  — 


The   tree    my   childhood   loved  is 

there, 

Its  bare-worn  roots  are  at  my  feet, 
And  through  its  open  boughs  I  meet 
White   glimpses    of    the  place    of 

prayer  — 

And  unforgotten  eyes  again 
Are  glancing  through  the  cottage  pane, 
Than  Asia's  lustrous  eyes  more  fair. 

What  though,  with  every  fitful  gush 
Of  night-wind,  spicy  odors  come  ; 

And  hues  of  beauty  glow  and  flush 

From  matted  vine  and  wild  rose-bush  ; 
And  music's  sweetest,  faintest  hum 

Steals  through  the  moonlight,  as  in 
dreams,  — 

Afar  from  all  my  spirit  seems 

Amid  the  dearer  scenes  of  HOME! 

A  holy  name  —  the  name  of  home!  — 
Yet  where,  O  wandering  heart,  is 
thine? 

Here  where  the  dusky  heathen  come 

To  bow  before  the  deaf  and  dumb, 
Dead  idols  of  their  own  design, 

Where  deep   in   Ganges'  worshipped 
tide 

The  infant  sinks  —  and  on  its  side 
The  widow's  funeral  altars  shine! 

Here,  where  'mid  light  and  song  and 
flowers 

The  priceless  soul  in  ruin  lies  — 
Lost — dead  to  all  those  better  powers 
Which  link  a  fallen  world  like  ours 

To  God's  own  holy  Paradise ; 
Where  open  sin  and  hideous  crime 
Are  like  the  foliage  of  their  clime  — 

The  unshorn  growth  of  centuries ! 

Turn,  then,  my  heart  —  thy  home  rs 

here; 

No  other  now  remains  for  thee  :  — 
The  smile  of  love,  and   friendship's 

tear, 
The  tones  that  melted  on  thine  ear, 

The  mutual  thrill  of  sympathy, 
The     welcome     of     the     household 
band, 


MASSACHUSETTS. 


345 


The  pressure  of  the  lip  and  hand, 
Thou  mayest  not  hear,  nor  feel,  nor 
see. 

God  of  my  spirit !  —  Thou,  alone, 
Who   watchest    o'er    my  pillowed 

head, 

Whose  ear  is  open  to  the  moan 
And    sorrowing    of    thy   child,    hast 

known 
The  grief  which  at  my  heart   has 

fed,- 

The  struggle  of  my  soul  to  rise 
Above  its  earth-born  sympathies,  — 
The  tears  of  many  a  sleepless  bed ! 

Oh,  be  Thine  arm,  as  it  hath  been, 
In  every  test  of  heart  and  faith  — 

The  Tempter's  doubt  —  the  wiles  of 
men  — 

The    heathen's    scoff — the    bosom 

sin  — 
A  helper  and  a  stay  beneath, 

A  strength  in  weakness  'mid  the  strife 

And  anguish  of  my  wasting  life  — 
My  solace  and  my  hope  in  death ! 

1833- 

MASSACHUSETTS. 

[Written  on  hearing  that  the  Resolutions 
of  the  Legislature  of  Massachusetts  on  the 
subject  of  Slavery,  presented  by  Hon.  C. 
GUSHING  to  the  House  of  Representatives 
of  the  United  States,  have  been  laid  on  the 
table  unread  and  unreferred,  under  the  in- 
famous rule  of"  PATTON'S  RESOLUTION."] 

AND  have  they  spurn'd  thy  word, 
Thou  of  the  old  THIRTEEN! 
Whose  soil,  where  Freedom's  blood 

first  pour'd 

Hath  yet  a  darker  green? 
Tread  the  weak  Southron's  pride  and 

lust 
Thy  name  and  councils  in  the  dust? 

And  have  they  closed  thy  mouth, 
And  fix'd  the  padlock  fast? 

Slave  of  the  mean  and  tyrant  South! 
Is  this  thy  fate  at  last? 


Old  Massachusetts!  can  it  be 
That  thus  thy  sons   must   speak  of 
thee? 

Call  from  the  Capitol 

Thy  chosen  ones  again  — 

Unmeet  for  them  the  base  control 
Of  Slavery's  curbing  rein ! 

Unmeet  for  necks  like  theirs  to  feel 

The  chafing  of  the  despot's  heel! 

Call  back  to  Quincy's  shade 

That  steadfast  son  of  thine  ; 

Go  —  if  thy  homage  must  be  paid 
To  Slavery's  pagod-shrine, 

Seek  out  some  meaner  offering  than 

The  free-born  soul  of  that  old  man. 

Call  that  true  spirit  back, 
So  eloquent  and  young  ; 

In  his  own  vale  of  Merrimack 

No  chains  are  on  his  tongue! 

Better  to  breathe  its  cold,  keen  air, 

Than   wear   the    Southron's   shackle 
there. 

Ay,  let  them  hasten  home, 

And  render  up  their  trust ; 

Through    them   the   Pilgrim-state   is 

dumb, 
Her  proud  lip  in  the  dust! 

Her  counsels  and  her  gentlest  word 

Of  warning  spurn'd  aside,  unheard! 

Let  them  come  back,  and  shake 
The  base  dust  from  their  feet ; 

And  with  their  tale  of  outrage  wake 
The  free  hearts  whom  'they  meet ; 

And  show  before  indignant  men 

The  scars  where  Slavery's  chain  has 
been. 

Back  from  the  Capitol  — 

It  is  no  place  for  thee! 
Beneath  the  arch  of  Heaven's   blue 

wall 

Thy  voice  may  still  be  free! 
What   power  shall  chain   thy   spirit 

there, 
In  God's  free  sun  and  freer  air  ? 


346 


EARLY  AND   UNCOLLECTED   POEMS. 


A  voice  is  calling  thee, 

From  all  the  martyr-graves 

Of  those  stern  men,  in  death  made 

free, 
Who  could  not  live  as  slaves. 

The  slumberings  of  thy  honor'd  dead 

Are  for  thy  sake  disquieted! 

The  curse  of  Slavery  comes 
Still  nearer,  day  by  day ; 

Shall  thy  pure  altars  and  thy  homes 
Become  the  Spoiler's  prey? 

Shall  the  dull  tread  of  fetter'd  slaves 

Sound  o'er  thy  old  and  holy  graves? 

Pride  of  the  old  THIRTEEN! 

That  curse  may  yet  be  stay'd  — 
Stand    thou,  in  Freedom's  strength, 
between 

The  living  and  the  dead  ; 
Stand  forth,  for  God  and  Liberty 
In  one  strong  effort  worthy  thee ! 

Once  more  let  Faneuil  Hall 
By  freemen's  feet  be  trod, 

And  give  the  echoes  of  its  wall 

Once  more  to  Freedom's  God! 

And  in  the  midst,  unseen,  shall  stand 

The  mighty  fathers  of  thy  land. 

Thy  gather'd  sons  shall  feel 
The  soul  of  Adams  near, 

And  Otis  with  his  fiery  zeal, 

And  Warren's  onward  cheer ; 

And  heart  to  heart  shall  thrill  as  when 

They  moved  and  spake  as  living  men. 

Fling,  from  thy  Capitol, 

Thy  banner  to  the  light, 

And,  o'er  thy  Charter's  sacred  scroll, 
For  Freedom  and  the  Right, 

Breathe    once    again   thy   vows,   un- 
broken — 

Speak  once  again  as  thou  hast  spoken. 

On  thy  bleak  hills,  speak  out! 

A  WORLD  thy  words  shall  hear ; 
And  they  who  listen  round  about, 

In  friendship,  or  in  fear, 


Shall   know   thee   still,   when   sorest 

tried, 
"  Unshaken  and  unterrified ! " l 

1837- 

ADDRESS. 

[Written  for  the  opening  of  "  PENNSYL- 
VANIA HALT,,"  dedicated  to  Free  Discus- 
sion, Virtue,  Liberty,  and  Independence, 
on  the  I5th  of  the  5th  month,  1838.] 

NOT  with  the  splendors  of  the  days 

of  old, 
The  spoil  of  nations,  and  "barbaric 

gold"- 
No  weapons  wrested  from  the  fields 

of  blood, 
Where  dark  and  stern  the  unyielding 

Roman  stood, 
And  the  proud  eagles  of  his  cohorts 

saw 
A   world,   war-wasted,   crouching   to 

his  law  — 

Nor  blazoned  car  —  nor  banners  float- 
ing gay, 
Like   those   which   swept   along   the 

Appian  way, 
When,   to   the  welcome   of  imperial 

Rome, 
The  victor  warrior  came  in  triumph 

home, 
And  trumpet-peal,  and  shoutings  wild 

and  high, 
Stirred  the  blue  quiet  of  the  Italian 

sky ; 
But  calm  and  grateful,  prayerful  and 

sincere, 
As  Christian  freemen,  only,  gathering 

here, 

We  dedicate  our  fair  and  lofty  Hall, 
Pillar  and  arch,  entablature  and  wall, 
As     Virtue's     shrine  —  as     Liberty's 

abode  — 
Sacred  to  Freedom,  and  to  Freedom's 

God! 

1<(  Massachusetts  has  held  her  way  right 
onward,  unshaken,  unseduced,  unterrified." 
—  Speech  of  C,  disking  in  the  House  of 
Representatives  of  the  United  States,  1836. 


ADDRESS. 


347 


Oh !  loftier  halls,  'neath  brighter  skies 

than  these, 
Stood  darkly  mirrored  in  the  ./Egean 

seas, 

Pillar  and  shrine — and  lifelike  stat- 
ues seen, 
Graceful  and  pure,  the  marble  shafts 

between, 
Where    glorious     Athens    from    her 

rocky  hill 
Saw  Art  and  Beauty  subject  to  her 

will  — 
And  the  chaste  temple,  and  the  classic 

grove  — 
The  hall  of  sages  —  and  the  bowers 

of  love, 
Arch,  fane,  and  column,  graced  the 

shores,  and  gave 
Their  shadows  to  the  blue  Saronic 

wave ; 
And  statelier  rose,  on  Tiber's  winding 

side, 

The    Pantheon's    dome  —  the    Coli- 
seum's pride  — 
The  Capitol,  whose  arches  backward 

flung 
The  deep,  clear  cadence  of  the  Roman 

tongue, 
Whence  stern  decrees,  like  words  of 

fate,  went  forth 
To  the  awed  nations  of  a  conquered 

earth, 
Where   the    proud    Caesars    in  their 

glory  came, 
And  Brutus  lightened  from  his  lips  of 

flame ! 

Yet  in  the  porches  of  Athena's  halls, 
And  in  the  shadows  of  her  stately 

walls, 
Lurked   the   sad   bondman,   and   his 

tears  of  woe 
Wet  the  cold  marble  with  unheeded 

flow; 
And  fetters  clanked  beneath  the  silver 

dome 
Of  the  proud  Pantheon  of  imperious 

Rome. 
Oh!    not  for  him  —  the  chained  and 

stricken  slave  — 


By   Tiber's   shore,   or  blue  /Egina's 

wave, 
In  the  thronged  forum,  or  the  sages' 

seat, 
The  bold  lip  pleaded,  and  the  warm 

heart  beat ; 

No  soul  of  sorrow  melted  at  his  pain, 
No  tear  of  pity  rusted  on  his  chain ! 

But  this  fair  Hall,  to  Truth  and  Free- 
dom given, 

Pledged  to  the  Right  before  all  Earth 
and  Heaven, 

A  free  arena  for  the  strife  of  mind, 

To  caste,  or  sect,  or  color  unconfined, 

Shall  thrill  with  echoes,  such  as  ne'er 
of  old 

From  Roman  hall,  or  Grecian  temple 
rolled ; 

Thoughts  shall  find  utterance,  such 
as  never  yet 

The  Propylaea  or  the  Forum  met. 

Beneath  its  roof  no  gladiator's  strife 

Shall  win  applauses  with  the  waste  of 
life; 

No  lordly  lictor  urge  the  barbarous 
game  — 

No  wanton  Lais  glory  in  her  shame. 

But  here  the  tear  of  sympathy  shall 
flow, 

As  the  ear  listens  to  the  tale  of 
woe; 

Here,  in  stern  judgment  of  the  op- 
pressor's wrong — 

Shall  strong  rebukings  thrill  on  Free- 
dom's tongue  — 

No  partial  justice  hold  the  unequal 
scale  — 

No  pride  of  caste  a  brother's  rights 
assail  — 

No  tyrant's  mandates  echo  from  this 
wall, 

Holy  to  Freedom  and  the  Rights  of 
All! 

But  a  fair  field,  where  mind  may  close 
with  mind, 

Free  as  the  sunshine  and  the  chain! ess 
wind; 

Where  the  high  trust  is  fixed  on 
Truth  alone, 


348 


EARLY  AND  UNCOLLECTED  POEMS. 


And  bonds  and  fetters  from  the  soul 

are  thrown ; 
Where  wealth,  and  rank,  and  worldly 

pomp,  and  might, 
Yield  to  the  presence  of  the  True  and 

Right. 

And  fitting  is  it  that  this  Hall  should 

stand 
Where   Pennsylvania's   Founder  led 

his  band, 
From  thy  blue  waters,  Delaware!  — 

to  press 

The  virgin  verdure  of  the  wilderness. 
Here,  where  all  Europe  with  amaze- 
ment saw 
The  soul's  high  freedom  trammelled 

by  no  law ; 
Here,   where    the  fierce   and  warlike 

forest-men 
Gathered  in  peace,  around  the  home 

of  PENN, 
Awed  by   the  weapons   Love   alone 

had  given, 
Drawn    from    the    holy    armory    of 

Heaven : 
Where    Nature's    voice    against    the 

bondman's  wrong 
First  found  an  earnest  and  indignant 

tongue ; 
Where  LAY'S  bold   message   to   the 

proud  was  borne, 
And  KEITH'S  rebuke,  and  FRANKLIN'S 

manly  scorn  — 
Fitting  it  is  that  here,  where  Freedom 

first 
From  her  fair  feet  shook  off  the  Old 

World's  dust,  ^ 

Spread  her  white  pinions  to  our  West- 
ern blast, 
And  her  free  tresses  to  our  sunshine 

cast, 
One  Hall  should  rise  redeemed  from 

Slavery's  ban  — 
One  Temple  sacred  to  the  Rights  of 

Man! 

Oh!     if    the    spirits    of   the    parted 

come, 
Visiting  angels,  to  their  olden  home ; 


If  the  dead  fathers  of  the  land  look 

forth 
From  their  far  dwellings,  to  the  things 

of  earth  — 
Is  it  a  dream,  that  with  their  eyes  of 

love, 
They  gaze  now  on  us  from  the  bowers 

above  ? 
LAY'S  ardent  soul  —  and  BENEZET  the 

mild, 
Steadfast   in   faith,   yet   gentle  as   a 

child - 
Meek-hearted  WOOLMAN,  —  and  that 

brother-band, 
The     sorrowing     exiles    from     their 

"  FATHERLAND," 
Leaving  their  homes  in  Krieshiem's 

bowers  of  vine, 
And  the  blue  beauty  of  their  glorious 

Rhine, 
To  seek  amidst  our  solemn  depths  of 

wood 
Freedom  from  man  and  holy  peace 

with  God ; 

Who  first  of  all  their  testimonial  gave 
Against  the  oppressor,  —  for  the  out- 
cast slave,  — 
Is  it  a  dream  that  such  as  these  look 

down, 
And  with  their  blessing  our  rejoicings 

crown  ? 

Let  us  rejoice,  that,  while  the  pulpit's 

door 
Is  barred  against  the  pleaders  for  the 

poor; 
While   the    church,   wrangling  upon 

points  of  faith, 
Forgets  her  bondmen  suffering  unto 

death  ; 

While  crafty  traffic  and  the  lust  of  gain 
Unite    to    forge    oppression's    triple 

chain, 
One  door  is  open,  and  one  Temple 

free  — 

As  a  resting  place  for  hunted  Liberty ! 
Where  men  may  speak,  unshackled 

and  unawed, 
High  words  of  truth,  for  freedom  and 

for  God. 


THE   RESPONSE. 


349 


And  when  that  truth  its  perfect  work 

hath  done, 
And  rich  with  blessings  o'er  our  land 

hath  gone ; 
When  not  a  slave  beneath  his  yoke 

shall  pine, 
From  broad  Potomac  to  the  far  Sa- 

bine; 

When  unto  angel-lips  at  last  is  given 
The  silver  trump  of  Jubilee  to  Heaven  ; 
And    from    Virginia's    plains  —  Ken- 
tucky V  shades, 

And  through  the  dim  Floridian  ever- 
glades, 
Rises,   to  meet   that   angel-trumpet's 

sound, 
The  voice  of  millions  from  their  chains 

unbound  — 
Then,  though  this  Hall  be  crumbling 

in  decay, 
Its   strong   walls    blending  with    the 

common  clay, 
Yet,  round  the  ruins  of  its  strength 

shall  stand 
The  best  and  noblest  of  a  ransomed 

land  — 
Pilgrims,  like  those  who  throng  around 

the  shrine 

Of  Mecca,  or  of  holy  Palestine!  — 
A  prouder  glory  shall  that  ruin  own 
Than  that  which  lingers  round  the 

Parthenon. 

Here  shall  the  child  of  after  years  be 

taught 
The   work    of    Freedom    which    his 

fathers  wrought  — 

Told  of  the  trials  of  the  present  hour, 
Our  weary  strife  with  prejudice  and 

power,  — 
How    the     high     errand     quickened 

woman's  soul, 
And  touched  her  lip  as  with  a  living 

coal  — 
How   Freedom's   martyrs   kept  their 

lofty  faith, 
True  and  unwavering,  unto  bonds  and 

death.  — 
The    pencil's    art    shall    sketch    the 

ruined  Hall, 


The  Muses'  garland  crown  its  aged 

wall, 
And    History's    pen    for   after   times 

record 
Its    consecration    unto    FREEDOM'S 

GOD! 
1838. 

THE   RESPONSE. 

["  To  agitate  the  question  (Slavery)  anew, 
is  not  only  impolitic,  but  it  is  a  virtual 
breach  of  good  faith  to  our  brethren  of  the 
South ;  an  unwarrantable  interference  with 
their  domestic  relations  and  institutions." 
"  I  can  never,  in  the  official  station  which  I 
occupy,  consent  to-  countenance  a  course 
which  may  jeopard  the  peace  and  harmony 
of  the  Union."  —  Governor  Porter  s  Inau- 
gural Message,  1838.] 

No  "  countenance  "  of  his,  forsooth ! 
Who  asked  it  at  his  vassal  hands? 
Who   looked    for   homage    done    to 

Truth, 

By  party's  vile  and  hateful  bands? 
Who  dreamed  that  one  by  them  pos- 
sessed, 
Would  lay  for  her  his  spear  in  rest? 

His  "countenance"!  well,  let  it  light 

The  human  robber  to  his  spoil !  — 
Let  those  who  track  the  bondman's 

flight, 
Like   bloodhounds   o'er  our    once 

free  soil, 

Bask  in  its  sunshine  while  they  may, 
And  howl  its  praises  on  their  way ; 

We    ask    no    boon :    our   rights    we 

claim  — 
Free     press     and     thought  —  free 

tongue  and  pen  — 
The   right    to    speak    in    Freedom's 

name, 

As  Pennsylvanians  and  as  men  ; 
To  do,  by  Lynch  law  unforbid, 
What  our  own  Rush  and  Franklin  did. 

Ay,  there  we  stand,  with  planted  feet, 
Steadfast,  where. those  old  worthies 
stood :  — 


350 


EARLY   AND   UNCOLLECTED   POEMS. 


Upon  us  let  the  tempest  beat, 
Around  us   swell    and    surge    the 

flood: 

We  fail  or  triumph  on  that  spot ; 
God  helping  us,  we  falter  not. 

"  A  breach  of  plighted  faith  ?  "     For 

shame !  — 
Who   voted    for    that    " breach"? 

Who  gave 
In  the  state  councils,  vote  and  name 

For  freedom  for  the  District  slave? 
Consistent  patriot!  go,  forswear, 
Blot    out,    u  expunge "     the     record 
there ! l 

Go,  eat  thy  words.    Shall  H C — 

Turn  round  —  a  moral  harlequin  ? 

And  arch  V —  —  B wipe  away 

The  stains  of  his  Missouri  sin? 

And  shall  that  one  unlucky  vote 

Stick,  burr-like,  in  thy  honest  throat? 

No  —  do  thy  part  in  "putting  down  "  2 
The   friends   of  Freedom  :  —  sum- 
mon out 

The  parson  in  his  saintly  gown, 
To  curse  the  outlawed  roundabout, 

In  concert  with  the  Belial  brood  — 

The  Balaam  of  "  the  brotherhood  "! 

Quench  every  free  discussion  light  — 
Clap  on  the  legislative  snuffers, 

And  caulk  with  "  resolutions  "  tight 
The  ghastly  rents  the  Union  suf- 
fers! 

Let  church  and  state  brand  Abolition 

As  heresy  and  rank  sedition. 

Choke  down,  at  once,  each  breathing 
thing, 

1  It  ought  to  be  borne  in  mind  that  DAVID 
R.  PORTER  voted  in  the  Legislature  to 
instruct  the  congressional  delegation  of 
Pennsylvania  to  use  their  influence  for  the 
abolition  of  slavery  in  the  District  of 
Columbia. 

2 "He  [Martin  Van  Buren]  thinks  the 
abolitionists  may  be  put  down."  —  Rich- 
mond (  Va.)  Enquirer. 


That   whispers   of  the   Rights   of 

Man :  — 
Gag  the  free  girl  who  dares  to  sing 

Of  freedom  o'er  her  dairy  pan  :  — 
Dog  the  old  farmer's  steps  about, 
And  hunt  his  cherished  treason  out. 

Go,  hunt  sedition.  —  Search  for  that 
In  every  pedler's  cart  of  rags  ; 

Pry  into  every  Quaker's  hat, 

And    DOCTOR    FUSSELL'S    saddle 
bags ! 

Lest  treason  wrap,  with  all  its  ills, 

Around  his  powders  and  his  pills. 

Where    Chester's    oak    and    walnut 

shades 

With  slavery-laden  breezes  stir, 
And  on  the  hills,  and  in  the  glades 
Of  Bucks  and  honest  Lancaster, 
Are   heads  which    think   and   hearts 

which  feel  — 
Flints  to  the  Abolition  steel! 

Ho!  send  ye  down  a  corporal's  guard 
With    flow    of   flag    and    beat    of 

drum  — 
Storm    LINDLEY    COATES'S     poultry 

yard, 
Beleaguer      THOMAS     WHITSON'S 

home ! 

Beat  up  the  Quaker  quarters  —  show 
Your  valor  to  an  unarmed  foe! 


Do  more.     Fill   up   your  loathsome 

jails 
With  faithful  men  and  women  — 

set 
The  scaffold  up  in  these  green  vales, 

And  let  their  verdant  turf  be  wet 
With  blood  of  unresisting  men  — 
Ay,  do  all  this,  and  more,  —  WHAT 
THEN? 

Think  ye,  one  heart  of  man  and  child 
Will  falter  from  his  lofty  faith, 

At  the  mob's  tumult,  fierce  and  wild  — 
The  prison  cell  —  the  shameful 
death  ? 


STANZAS   FOR  THE  TIMES. 


351 


No !  —  nursed  in  storm  and  trial  long, 
The  weakest  of  our  band  is  strong ! 

Oh!  while  before  us  visions  come 

Of  slave  ships  on  Virginia's  coast — 
Of  mothers  in  their  childless  home, 
Like   Rachel,   sorrowing    o'er    the 

lost  — 
The   slave-gang    scourged    upon   its 

way  — 

The    bloodhound    and     his    human 
prey- 

We  cannot  falter!     Did  we  so, 

The  stones  beneath  would  murmur 

out, 

And  all  the  winds  that  round  us  blow 
Would  whisper  of  our  shame  about. 
No!  let  the  tempest  rock  the  land, 
Our  faith  shall  live  —  our  truth  shall 
stand. 

True  as  the  Vaudois  hemmed  around 

With  Papal  fire  and  Roman  steel  — 

Firm  as  the  Christian  heroine  bound 

Upon  Domitian's  torturing  wheel, 

We   'bate   no   breath  —  we   curb  no 

thought  — 

Come  what  may  come,  WE  FALTER 
NOT! 

STANZAS     FOR     THE     TIMES. 

1844. 

[Written  on  reading  the  sentence  of  JOHN 
L.  BROWN,  of  South  Carolina,  to  be  executed 
on  the  25th  of  4th  month,  1844,  for  the  crime 
of  assisting  a  female  slave  to  escape  from 
bondage.  The  sentence  was  afterwards 
commuted.] 

Ho!  thou  who  seekest  late  and  long 

A  license  from  the  Holy  Book 
For  brutal  lust  and  hell's  red  wrong, 

Man  of  the  pulpit,  look !  — 
Lift  up  those  cold  and  atheist  eyes, 

This  ripe  fruit  of  thy  teaching  see ; 
And  tell  us  how  to  Heaven  will  rise 
The  incense  of  this  sacrifice  — 

This     blossom    of     the    Gallows 
Tree!  — 


Search  out  for  SLAVERY'S   hour  of 
need 

Some  fitting  text  of  sacred  writ ; l 
Give  Heaven  the  credit  of  a  deed 

Which  shames  the  nether  pit. 
Kneel,  smooth  blasphemer,  unto  Him 

Whose  truth  is  on  thy  lips  a  lie, 
Ask  that  His  bright-winged  cherubim 
May  bend  around  that  scaffold  grim 

To  guard  and  bless  and  sanctify!  — 

Ho !  champion  of  the  people's  cause  — 

Suspend  thy  loud  and  vain  rebuke 
Of  foreign  wrong  and  Old  World  laws, 

Man  of  the  Senate,  look !  — 
Was  this  the  promise  of  the  free,  — 

The  great  hope  of  our  early  time, — 
That  Slavery's  poison  vine  should  be 
Upborne  by  Freedom's  prayer-nursed 
tree, 

O'erclustered  with   such   fruits   of 
crime?  — 

Send   out    the  summons,   East    and 

West, 
And   South  and  North,  let  all  be 

there, 
Where  he  who  pitied  the  oppressed 

Swings  out  in  sun  and  air. 
Let  not  a  democratic  hand 

The  grisly  hangman's  task  refuse  ; 
There  let  each  loyal  patriot  stand 
Awaiting  Slavery's  command 

To  twist   the  rope  and   draw  the 
noose ! 

But  vain  is  irony  —  unmeet 

Its    cold   rebuke  for  deeds   which 

start 
In  fiery  and  indignant  beat 

The  pulses  of  the  heart. 
Leave  studied  wit,  and  guarded  phrase ; 

And  all  that  kindled  heart  can  feel 

1  Three  new  publications,  from  the  pens 
of  Dr.  Junkin,  President  of  Miami  College, 
Alexander  McCaine  of  the  Methodist  Prot- 
estant church,  and  of  a  clergyman  of  the 
Cincinnati  Synod,  defending  Slavery  -on 
Scriptural  ground,  have  recently  made  their 
appearance. 


352 


EARLY   AND   UNCOLLECTED   POEMS. 


Speak   out    in    earnest    words    which 

raise, 
Where'er  they  fall,  an  answering 

blaze, 
Like  flints  which  strike  the  fire  from 

steel. 

Still  let  a  mousing  priesthood  ply 

Their  garbled  text  and  gloss  of  sin, 
And  make  the  lettered  scroll  deny 

Its  living  soul  within  ; 
Still  let  the  place-fed  titled  knave 

Plead    Robbery's    right    with    pur- 
chased lips, 

And  tell  us  that  our  fathers  gave 
For  Freedom's  pedestal,  a  slave, 

For  frieze  and  moulding,  chains  and 
whips !  — 

But  ye  who  own  that  higher  law 

Whose  tables  in  the  heart  are  set, 
Speak  out  in  words  of  power  and  awe 

That  God  is  living  yet! 
Breathe  forth  once  more  those  tones 
sublime 

Which  thrilled  the  burdened  proph- 
et's lyre, 

And  in  a  dark  and  evil  time 
Smote  down  on  Israel's  fast  of  crime 

And  gift  of  blood,  a  rain  of  fire! 

Oh,  not  for  us  the  graceful  lay, 

To   whose    soft    measures    lightly 

move 
The  Dryad  and  the  woodland  Fay, 

O'erlooked  by  Mirth  and  Love  ; 
But  such  a  stern  and  startling  strain 
As   Britain's    hunted    bards    flung 

down 
From  Snowden,  to  the  conquered 

plain, 

Where   harshly   clanked    the   Saxon 
chain 


On   trampled    field    and    smoking 
town. 

By  Liberty's  dishonored  name, 

By   man's   lost   hope,   and    failing 

trust, 
By  words  and  deeds,  which  bow  with 

shame 

Our  foreheads  to  the  dust,  — 
By  the  exulting  tyrant's  sneer, 

Borne  to  us  from  the  Old  World's 

thrones, 

And  by  their  grief,  who  pining  hear, 
In  sunless  mines  and  dungeons  drear, 
How  Freedom's  land  her  faith  dis- 
owns ;  — 

Speak  out  in  acts:  the  time  for  words 
Has  passed,  and  deeds  alone  suffice  ; 
In  the  loud  clang  of  meeting  swords 

The  softer  music  dies! 
Act  —  act,  in  God's   name,  while  ye 

may, 
Smite  from  the  church  her  leprous 

limb, 

Throw  open  to  the  light  of  day 
The  bondman's  cell,  and  break  away 
The  chains  the  state  has  bound  on 
him. 

Ho!  every  true  and  living  soul, 

To  Freedom's  perilled  altar  bear 
The   freeman's    and    the   Christian's 

whole, 

Tongue,  pen,  and  vote,  and  prayer! 

One  last  great  battle  for  the  Right,— 

One  short,   sharp   struggle   to   be 

free !  — 

To  do  is  to  succeed  —  our  fight 
Is    waged    in    Heaven's     approving 

sight  — 

The  smile  of  God  is  Victory ! 
1844. 


NOTES. 


Page  I.    Mogg  Megone. 

MOGG  MEGONE,  or  Hegone,  was  a 
leader  among  the  Saco  Indians,  in  the 
bloody  war  of  1677.  He  attacked  and  cap- 
tured the  garrison  at  Black  Point,  October 
I2th  of  that  year ;  and  cut  off,  at  the  same 
time,  a  party  of  Englishmen  near  Saco 
River.  From  a  deed  signed  by  this  Indian 
in  1664,  and  from  other  circumstances,  it 
seems  that,  previous  to  the  war,  he  had 
mingled  much  with  the  colonists.  On  this 
account,  he  was  probably  selected  by  the 
principal  sachems  as  their  agent  in  the 
treaty  signed  in  November,  1676. 

Page  2.     Castine. 

Baron  de  St.  Castine  came  to  Canada 
in  1644.  Leaving  his  civilized  compan- 
ions, he  plunged  into  the  great  wilder- 
ness and  settled  among  the  Penobscot 
Indians,  near  the  mouth  of  their  noble 
river.  He  here  took  for  his  wives  the 
daughters  of  the  great  Modocawando, — 
the  most  powerful  sachem  of  the  East. 
His  castle  was  plundered  by  Governor  An- 
dros,  during  his  reckless  administration; 
and  the  enraged  Baron  is  supposed  to  have 
excited  the  Indians  into  open  hostility  to 
the  English. 

Page  2.     Jocelyn. 

The  owner  and  commander  of  the  garri- 
son at  Black  Point,  which  Mogg  attacked 
and  plundered.  He  was  an  old  man  at  the 
period  to  which  the  tale  relates. 

Page  2.     Phillips. 

Major  Phillips,  one  of  the  principal  men 
of  the  Colony.  His  garrison  sustained  a 
long  and  terrible  siege  by  the  savages.  As 
a  magistrate  and  a  gentleman,  he  exacted  of 
his  plebeian  neighbors  a  remarkable  de- 
gree of  deference.  The  Court  Records  of 
the  settlement  inform  us  that  an  individual 
was  fined  for  the  heinous  offence  of  saying 
2A 


that  "  Major  Phillips's  mare  was  as  lean  as 
an  Indian  dog." 

Page  2.     Harmon. 

Captain  Harmon,  of  Georgiana,  now 
York,  was,  for  many  years,  the  terror  of 
the  Eastern  Indians.  In  one  of  his  ex- 
peditions up  the  Kennebec  River,  at  the 
head  of  a  party  of  rangers,  he  discovered 
twenty  of  the  savages  asleep  by  a  large  fire. 
Cautiously  creeping  towards  them  until  he 
was  certain  of  his  aim,  he  ordered  his  men 
to  single  out  their  objects.  The  first  dis- 
charge killed  or  mortally  wounded  the 
whole  number  of  the  unconscious  sleepers. 

Page  2.      Vine-hung  isle. 

Wood  Island,  near  the  mouth  of  the 
Saco.  It  was  visited  by  the  Sieur  de 
Monts  and  Champlain,  in  1603.  The  fol- 
lowing extract,  from  the  journal  of  the  latter, 
relates  to  it :  "  Having  left  the  Kennebec, 
we  ran  along  the  coast  to  the  westward,  and 
cast  anchor  under  a  small  island,  near  the 
mainland,  where  we  saw  twenty  or  more 
natives.  I  here  visited  an  island,  beautifully 
clothed  with  a  fine  growth  of  forest  trees, 
particularly  of  the  oak  and  walnut;  and 
overspread  with  vines,  that,  in  their  season, 
produce  excellent  grapes.  We  named  it 
the  island  of  Bacchus."  —  Les  Voyages  de 
Sieur  Champlain,  Liv.  2,  c.  8. 

Page  2.     Bonython. 

John  Bonython  was  the  son  of  Richard 
Bonython,  Gent.,  one  of  the  most  efficient 
and  able  magistrates  of  the  Colony.  John 
proved  to  be  "a  degenerate  plant."  In 
1635,  we  find,  by  the  Court  Records,  that, 
for  some  offence,  he  was  fined  405.  In 
'  1640,  he  was  fined  for  abuse  toward  R.  Gib- 
son, the  minister,  and  Mary  his  wife.  Soon 
after  he  was  fined  for  disorderly  conduct  in 
the  house  of  his  father.  In  1645,  *ne  "  Great 
and  General  Court "  adjudged  "  John  Bony- 


353 


354 


NOTES. 


thon  outlawed,  and  incapable  of  any  of  his 
Majesty's  laws,  and  proclaimed  him  a  rebel." 
(Court  Records  of  the  Province,  1645.)  In 
1651,  he  bade  defiance  to  the  laws  of  Mass- 
achusetts, and  was  again  outlawed.  He 
acted  independently  of ''all  law  and  author- 
ity; and  hence,  doubtless,  his  burlesque 
title  of  "The  Sagamore  of  Saco,"  which  has 
come  down  to  the  present  generation  in  the 
following  epitaph  :  — 

"  Here   lies    Bonython ;    the   Sagamore   of 

Saco, 

He  lived  a  rogue,  and  died  a  knave,  and 
went  to  Hobomoko." 

By  some  means  or  other,  he  obtained  a 
large  estate.  In  this  poem,  I  have  taken 
some  liberties  with  him,  not  strictly  war- 
ranted by  historical  facts,  although  the  con- 
duct imputed  to  him  is  in  keeping  with  his 
general  character.  Over  the  last  years  of 
his  life  lingers  a  deep  obscurity.  Even  the 
manner  of  his  death  is  uncertain.  He  was 
supposed  to  have  been  killed  by  the  Indians  ; 
but  this  is  doubted  by  the  able  and  inde- 
fatigable author  of  the  History  of  Saco  and 
Biddeford.  —  Part  I.  p.  115. 

Page  2.      The  leaping  brook. 

Foxwell's  Brook  flows  from  a  marsh  or 
bog,  called  the  "  Heath,"  in  Saco,  contain- 
ing thirteen  hundred  acres.  On  this  brook, 
and  surrounded  by  wild  and  romantic 
scenery,  is  a  beautiful  waterfall,  of  more 
than  sixty  feet. 

Page  3.    Hiacoomes. 

Hiacoomes,  the  first  Christian  preacher 
on  Martha's  Vineyard;  for  a  biography 
of  whom  the  reader  is  referred  to  In- 
crease Mayhew's  account  of  the  Praying 
Indians,  1726.  The  following  is  related  of 
him :  "  One  Lord's  day,  after  meeting, 
where  Hiacoomes  had  been  preaching, 
there  came  in  a  Powwaw  very  angry,  and 
said,  'I  know  all  the  meeting  Indians  are 
liars.  You  say  you  don't  care  for  the  Pow- 
waws ' ;  —  then  calling  two  or  three  of  them 
by  name,  he  railed  at  them,  and  told  them 
they  were  deceived,  for  the  Powwaws  could 
kill  all  the  meeting  Indians,  if  they  set  about 
it.  But  Hiacoomes  told  him  that  he  would 
be  in  the  midst  of  all  the  Powwaws  in  the 


island,  and  they  should  do  the  utmost  they 
could  against  him ;  and  when  they  should 
do  their  worst  by  their  witchcraft  to  kill  him, 
he  would  without  fear  set  himself  against 
them,  by  remembering  Jehovah.  He  told 
them  also  he  did  put  all  the  Powwaws  un- 
der his  heel.  Such  was  the  faith  of  this 
good  man.  Nor  were  these  Powwaws  ever 
able  to  do  these  Christian  Indians  any  hurt, 
though  others  were  frequently  hurt  and  killed 
by  them."  —  Mayhew,  pp.  6,  7,  c.  r. 

Page  5.     An  ache  in  her  tooth. 

"The  tooth-ache,"  says  Roger  Williams 
in  his  observations  upon  the  language  and 
customs  of  the  New  England  tribes,  "  is 
the  only  paine  which  will  force  their  stoute 
hearts  to  cry."  He  afterwards  remarks 
that  even  the  Indian  women  never  cry  as  he 
has  heard  "  some  of  their  men  in  this  paine." 

Page  6.     Wuttamuttata. 

Wuttamuttata,  "  Let  us  drink."  Weekan, 
"  It  is  sweet."  Vide  Roger  Williams 's 
Key  to  the  Indian  Language,  "  in  that  parte 
of  America  called  New  England."  London, 
1643,  p.  35. 

Page  7.      Wetuomanit. 

Wetuomanit,  —  a  house  god,  or  demon. 
"They  —  the  Indians  —  have  given  me 
the  names  of  thirty-seven  gods,  which  I 
have,  all  which  in  their  solemne  Worships 
they  invocate  !  "  R.  Williams's  Briefe  Ob- 
servations of  the  Customs,  Manners,  Wor- 
ships, &c.,  of  the  Natives,  in  Peace  and 
Warre,  in  Life  and  Death :  on  all  which  is 
added  Spiritual  Observations,  General  and 
Particular,  of  Chiefe  and  Special  use  —  upon 
all  occasions  —  to  all  the  English  inhabiting 
these  parts ;  yet  Pleasant  and  Profitable  to 
the  view  of  all  Mene.  —  p.  no,  c.  21. 

Page   9.     The  Desert  hie. 

Mt.  Desert  Island,  the  Bald  Mountain 
upon  which  overlooks  Frenchman's  and 
Penobscot  Bay.  It  was  upon  this  island 
that  the  Jesuits  made  their  earliest  settle- 
ment. 

Page  10.     The  Jesuifs  Cross  and  Book. 

Father  Hennepin,  a  missionary  among 
the  Iroquois,  mentions  that  the  Indians 
believed  him  to  be  a  conjurer,  and  that 
they  were  particularly  afraid  of  a  bright 
silver  chalice  which  he  had  in  his  possession. 
"The  Indians,"  says  Pere  Jerome  Lalla- 


NOTES. 


355 


mant,  "  fear  us  as  the  greatest  sorcerers  on 
earth." 

Page  10.     Bomazeen. 

Bomazeen  is  spoken  of  by  Penhallow,  as 
"  the  famous  warrior  and  chieftain  of  Nor- 
ridgewock."  He  was  killed  in  the  attack  of 
the  English  upon  Norridgewock,  in  1724. 

Page  ii.      The  Jesuit. 

Pere  Ralle,  or  Rasles,  was  one  of  the 
most  zealous  and  indefatigable  of  that 
band  of  Jesuit  missionaries  who,  at  the 
beginning  of  the  seventeenth  century,  pene- 
trated the  forests  of  America,  with  the  avowed 
object  of  converting  the  heathen.  The  first 
religious  mission  of  the  Jesuits,  to  the  sav- 
ages in  North  America,  was  in  1611.  The 
zeal  of  the  fathers  for  the  conversion  of  the 
Indians  to  the  Catholic  faith  knew  no 
bounds.  For  this,  they  plunged  into  the 
depths  of  the  wilderness  ;  habituated  them- 
selves to  all  the  hardships  and  privations 
of  the  natives ;  suffered  cold,  hunger,  and 
some  of  them  death  itself,  by  the  extremest 
tortures.  Pere  Brebeuf,  after  laboring  in 
the  cause  of  his  mission  for  twenty  years, 
together  with  his  companion,  Pere  Lalla- 
mant,  was  burned  alive.  To  these  might 
be  added  the  names  of  those  Jesuits  who 
were  put  to  death  by  the  Iroquois,  —  Dan- 
iel, Gamier,  Buteaux,  La  Riborerde,  Gou- 
pil,  Constantin,  and  Liegeouis.  "  For  bed," 
says  Father  Lallamant,  in  his  Relation  de 
ce  qui  s'cst  dans  le  pays  des  Hurons,  1640,  c. 
3,  "  we  have  nothing  but  a  miserable  piece 
of  bark  of  a  tree  ;  for  nourishment,  a  hand- 
ful or  two  of  corn,  either  roasted  or  soaked 
in  water,  which  seldom  satisfies  our  hunger ; 
and  after  all,  not  venturing  to  perform  even 
the  ceremonies  of  our  religion,  without  be- 
ing considered  as  sorcerers."  Their  suc- 
cess among  the  natives,  however,  by  no 
means  equalled  their  exertions.  Pere  Lalla- 
mant says :  "  With  respect  to  adult  per- 
sons, in  good  health,  there  is  little  apparent 
success ;  on  the  contrary,  there  have  been 
nothing  but  storms  and  whirlwinds  from 
that  quarter." 

Sebastian  Ralle  established  himself,  some 
time  about  the  year  1670,  at  Norridgewock, 
where  he  continued  more  than  forty  years. 
He  was  accused,  and  perhaps  not  without 
justice,  of  exciting  his  praying  Indians 


against  the  English,  whom  he  looked  upon 
as  the  enemies  not  only  of  his  king,  but  also 
of  the  Catholic  religion.  He  was  killed  by 
the  English,  in  1724,  at  the  foot  of  the  cross 
which  his  own  hands  had  planted.  This 
Indian  church  was  broken  up,  and  its 
members  either  killed  outright  or  dispersed. 

In  a  letter  written  by  Ralle  to  his  nephew 
he  gives  the  following  account  of  his  church, 
and  his  own  labors:  "All  my  converts  re- 
pair to  the  church  regularly  twice  every 
day ;  first,  very  early  in  the  morning,  to  at- 
tend mass,  and  again  in  the  evening,  to 
assist  in  the  prayers  at  sunset.  As  it  is 
necessary  to  fix  the  imagination  of  savages, 
whose  attention  is  easily  distracted,  I  have 
composed  prayers,  calculated  to  inspire 
them  with  just  sentiments  of  the  august 
sacrifice  of  our  altars :  they  chant,  or  at 
least  recite  them  aloud,  during  mass.  Be- 
sides preaching  to  them  on  Sundays  and 
saints'  days,  I  seldom  let  a  working-day 
pass,  without  making  a  concise  exhortation, 
for  the  purpose  of  inspiring  them  with  hor- 
ror at  those  vices  to  which  they  are  most 
addicted,  or  to  confirm  them  in  the  practise 
of  some  particular  virtue."  Vide  Lettres 
Edifiantes  et  Cur.,  Vol.  VI.  p.  127. 

Page    15.     Pale  priest! 

The  character  of  Ralle  has  probably 
never  been  correctly  delineated.  By  his 
brethren  of  the  Romish  Church,  he 
has  been  nearly  apotheosized.  On  the 
other  hand,  our  Puritan  historians  have 
represented  him  as  a  demon  in  human 
fdrm.  He  was  undoubtedly  sincere  in  his 
devotion  to  the  interests  of  his  church,  and 
not  over-scrupulous  as  to  the  means  of  ad- 
vancing those  interests.  "The  French," 
says  the  author  of  the  History  of  Saco  and 
Biddeford,  "  after  the  peace  of  1713,  secretly 
promised  to  supply  the  Indians  with  arms 
and  ammunition,  if  they  would  renew  hos- 
tilities. Their  principal  agent  was  the  cele- 
brated Ralle,  the  French  Jesuit."  — p. 
215. 

Page  1 6.     De  Rouville. 

Hertel  de  Rouville  was  an  active  and 
unsparing  enemy  of  the  English.  He  was 
the  leader  of  the  combined  French  and 
Indian  forces  which  destroyed  Deerfield 
and  massacred  its  inhabitants,  in  1703.  He 


356 


NOTES. 


was  afterwards  killed  in  the  attack  upon 
Haverhill.  Tradition  says  that,  on  examin- 
ing his  dead  body,  his  head  and  face  were 
found  to  be  perfectly  smooth,  without  the 
slightest  appearance  of  hair  or  beard. 

Page  17.     Cowesass? 

Cowesass? — tawhich  wessaseen?  Are 
you  afraid  ?  —  why  fear  you  ? 

Page  20.   THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 

Winnepurkit,  otherwise  called  George, 
Sachem  of  Saugus,  married  a  daughter 
of  Passaconaway,  the  great  Pennacook 
chieftain,  in  1662.  The  wedding  took  place 
at  Pennacook  (now  Concord,  N.  H.), 
and  the  ceremonies  closed  with  a  great 
feast.  According  to  the  usages  of  the 
chiefs,  Passaconaway  ordered  a  select  num- 
ber of  his  men  to  accompany  the  newly- 
married  couple  to  the  dwelling  of  the 
husband,  where  in  turn  there  was  another 
great  feast.  Some  time  after,  the  wife  of 
Winnepurkit,  expressing  a  desire  to  visit 
her  father's  house,  was  permitted  to  go,  ac- 
companied by  a  brave  escort  of  her  hus- 
band's chief  men.  But  when  she  wished  to 
return,  her  father  sent  a  messenger  to  Sau- 
gus, informing  her  husband,  and  asking 
him  to  come  and  take  her  away.  He  re- 
turned for  an  answer  that  he  had  escorted 
his  wife  to  her  father's  house  in  a  style  that 
became  a  chief,  and  that  now  if  she  wished 
to  return,  her  father  must  send  her  back  in 
the  same  way.  This  Passaconaway  refused 
to  do,  and  it  is  said  that  here  terminated 
the  connection  of  his  daughter  with  the 
Saugus  chief.  —  Vide  Morton's  New  Canaan. 

Page  24.      The  Bashaba. 

This  was  the  name  which  the  Indians 
of  New  England  jfave  to  two  or  three 
of  their  principal  chiefs,  to  whom  all 
their  inferior  sagamores  acknowledged  al- 
legiance. Passaconaway  seems  to  have 
been  one  of  these  chiefs.  His  residence 
was  at  Pennacook.  (Mass.  Hist.  Coll., 
Vol.  III.  pp.  21,  22.)  "  He  was  regarded," 
says  Hubbard,  "  as  a  great  sorcerer,  and 
his  fame  was  widely  spread.  It  was  said  of 
him  that  he  could  cause  a  green  leaf  to  grow 
in  winter,  trees  to  dance,  water  to  burn,  &c. 
He  was,  undoubtedly,  one  of  those  shrewd 
and  powerful  men  whose  achievements  are 
always  regarded  by  a  barbarous  people  as 


the  result  of  supernatural  aid.  The  Indians 
gave  to  such  the  names  of  Powahs  or 
Panisees." 

"  The  Panisees  are  men  of  great  courage 
and  wisdom,  and  to  these  the  Devill  appear- 
eth  more  familiarly  than  to  others."  —  Wins- 
low's  Relation. 

Page   26.     The  household-god. 

"  The  Indians,"  says  Roger  Williams, 
"  have  a  god  whom  they  call  Wetuomanit, 
who  presides  over  the  household." 

Page  28.      The  great  stone  vase. 

There  are  rocks  in  the  river  at  the  Falls 
of  Amoskeag,  in  the  cavities  of  which,  tradi- 
tion says,  the  Indians  formerly  stored  and 
concealed  their  corn. 

Page  30.     Aukeetamit. 

The  Spring  God.  —  Vide  Roger  Will- 
iams's  Key,  &c. 

Page  33-     Mat  wonck  kunna-monee  ! 

"  Mat  wonck  kunna-monee."  We  shall 
see  thee  or  her  no  more. —  Vide  Roger 
Wiliiams's  Key  to  the  Indian  Language. 

Page  33-     O  mighty  Sowanna  ! 

"The  Great  South  West  God."—  Vide 
Roger  Williams' s  Observations,  &c. 

Page  34.     The  adventurer. 

The  celebrated  Captain  Smith,  after  re- 
signing the  government  of  the  Colony  in 
Virginia,  in  his  capacity  of  "  Admiral  of 
New  England,"  made  a  careful  survey  of 
the  coast  from  Penobscot  to  Cape  Cod,  in 
the  summer  of  1614. 

Page  34.     "  The  Smile  of  Heaven" 

Lake  Winnipiseogee,  —  The  Smile  of  the 
Great  Spirit,  —  the  source  of  one  of  the 
branches  of  the  Merrimack. 

Page  34.  The  sweetest  name  in  all  his 
story. 

Captain  Smith  gave  to  the  promontory, 
now  called  Cape  Ann,  the  name  of  Traga- 
bizanda,  in  memory  of  his  young  and 
beautiful  mistress  of  that  name,  who,  while 
he  was  a  captive  at  Constantinople,  like 
Desdemona,  "  loved  him  for  the  dangers  he 
had  passed." 

Page  38.    THE  NORSEMEN. 

Some  three  or  four  years  since,  a  frag- 
ment of  a  statue,  rudely  chiselled  from 
dark  gray  stone,  was  found  in  the  town  of 
Bradford,  on  the  Merrimack.  Its  origin 
must  be  left  entirely  to  conjecture.  The 


NOTES. 


357 


fact  that  the  ancient  Northmen  visited  New 
England,  some  centuries  before  the  discov- 
eries of  Columbus,  is  now  very  generally 
admitted. 

Page  46.     The  proud  Castilian. 

De  Soto,  in  the  sixteenth  century,  pene- 
trated into  the  wilds  of  the  new  world  in 
search  of  gold  and  the  fountain  of  perpetual 
youth. 

Page  53.     TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE. 

TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE,  the  black 
chieftain  of  Hayti,  was  a  slave  on  the 
plantation  "  de  Libertas,"  belonging  to  M. 
BAYOU.  When  the  rising  of  the  negroes 
took  place,  in  1791,  TOUSSAINT  refused  to 
join  them  until  he  had  aided  M.  BAYOU 
and  his  family  to  escape  to  Baltimore. 
The  white  man  had  discovered  in  Tous- 
saint  many  noble  qualities,  and  had  in- 
structed him  in  some  of  the  first  branches 
of  education;  and  the  preservation  of  his 
life  was  owing  to  the  negro's  gratitude  for 
this  kindness. 

In  1797,  Toussaint  L'Ouverlure  was  ap- 
pointed, by  the  French  government,  Gen- 
eral-in-Chief of  the  armies  of  St.  Domingo, 
and,  as  such,  signed  the  Convention  with 
General  Maitland  for  the  evacuation  of  the 
island  by  the  British.  From  this  period, 
until  1801,  the  island,  under  the  government 
of  Toussaint,  was  happy,  tranquil,  and  pros- 
perous. The  miserable  attempt  of  Napoleon 
to  re-establish  slavery  in  St.  Domingo,  al- 
though it  failed  of  its  intended  object,  proved 
fatal  to  the  negro  chieftain.  Treacherously 
seized  by  Leclerc,  he  was  hurried  on  board 
a  vessel  by  night,  and  conveyed  to  France, 
where  he  was  confined  in  a  cold  subterra- 
nean dungeon,  at  Besancon,  where,  in  April, 
1803,  he  died.  The  treatment  of  Toussaint 
finds  a  parallel  only  in  the  murder  of  the 
Duke  D'Enghien.  It  was  the  remark  of 
Godwin,  in  his  Lectures,  that  the  West  In- 
dia Islands,  since  their  first  discovery  by 
Columbus,  could  not  boast  of  a  single  name 
which  deserves  comparison  with  that  of 
Toussaint  L'Ouverture. 

Page  56.     Dark  Haytien  ! 

The  reader  may,  perhaps,  call  to  mind  the 
beautiful  sonnet  of  William  Wordsworth, 
addressed  to  Toussaint  L'Ouverture,  during 
his  confinement  in  France. 


"  Toussaint !  — thou  most  unhappy  man  of 

men ! 
Whether  the  whistling  rustic  tends    his 

plough 

Within  thy  hearing,  or  thou  liest  now 
Buried  in  some  deep  dungeon's  earless  den ; 
O  miserable  chieftain  !  —  where  and  when 
Wilt  thou  find  patience  ?  —  Yet,  die  not, 

do  thou 

Wear  rather  in  thy  bonds  a  cheerful  brow  ; 
Though  fallen  thyself,  never  to  rise  again, 
Live  and  take  comfort.     Thou  hast  left  be- 
hind 
Powers  that  will  work  for  thee ;  air,  earth, 

and  skies, — 
There  "s  not  a  breathing  of  the  common 

wind 
That  will   forget  thee:    thou   hast  great 

allies. 

Thy  friends  are  exultations,  agonies, 
And     love,    and     man's     unconquerable 
mind." 

Page  56.    THE  SLAVE-SHIP. 

The  French  ship  LE  RODEUR,  with  a 
crew  of  twenty-two  men,  and  with  one 
hundred  and  sixty  negro  slaves,  sailed 
from  Bonny,  in  Africa,  April,  1819.  On  ap- 
proaching the  line,  a  terrible  malady  broke 
out,  —  an  obstinate  disease  of  the  eyes,  — 
contagious,  and  altogether  beyond  the  re- 
sources of  medicine.  It  was  aggravated  by 
the  scarcity  of  water  among  the  slaves  (only 
half  a  wineglass  per  day  being  allowed  to 
an  individual),  and  by  the  extreme  impurity 
of  the  air  in  which  they  breathed.  By  the 
advice  of  the  physician,  they  were  brought 
upon  deck  occasionally;  but  some  of  the 
poor  wretches,  locking  themselves  in  each 
other's  arms,  leaped  overboard,  in  the  hope, 
which  so  universally  prevails  among  them, 
of  being  swiftly  transported  to  their  own 
homes  in  Africa.  To  check  this,  the  cap- 
tain ordered  several  who  were  stopped  in 
the  attempt  to  be  shot,  or  hanged,  before 
their  companions.  The  disease  extended 
to  the  crew;  and  one  after  another  were 
smitten  with  it,  until  only  one  remained  un- 
affected. Yet  even  this  dreadful  condition 
did  not  preclude  calculation :  to  save  the 
expense  of  supporting  slaves  rendered  un- 
salable, and  to  obtain  grounds  for  a  claim 


BANCROFT 


35S 


NOTES. 


against  the  underwriters,  thirty-six  of  the 
negroes,  having  become  blind,  were  thrown 
into  the  sea  and  drowned! 

In  the  midst  of  their  dreadful  fears  lest 
the  solitary  individual,  whose  sight  remained 
unaffected,  should  also  be  seized  with  the 
malady,  a  sail  was  discovered.  It  was  the 
Spanish  slaver,  Leon.  The  same  disease 
had  been  there ;  and,  horrible  to  tell,  all 
the  crew  had  become  blind !  Unable  to 
assist  each  other,  the  vessels  parted.  The 
Spanish  ship  has  never  since  been  heard  of. 
The  Rodeur  reached  Guadaloupe  on  the 
2ist  of  June  ;  the  only  man  who  had  escaped 
the  disease,  and  had  thus  been  enabled  to 
steer  the  slaver  into  port,  caught  it  in  three 
days  after  its  arrival.  —  Speech  of  M.  Ben- 
jamin Constant,  in  the  French  Chamber  of 
Deputies,  June  17,  1820. 

Page  78.     And  he  —  the  basest  of  the  base. 

The  Northern  author  of  the  Congressional 
rule  against  receiving  petitions  of  the  people 
on  the  subject  of  Slavery. 

Page  90.     YORKTOWN. 

Dr.  Thacher,  surgeon  in  Scammel's  regi- 
ment, in  his  description  of  the  siege  of 
Yorktown,  says:  "The  labor  on  the  Vir- 
ginia plantations  is  performed  altogether 
by  a  species  of  the  human  race  cruelly 
wrested  from  their  native  country,  and 
doomed  to  perpetual  bondage,  while  their 
masters  are  manfully  contending  for  free- 
dom and  the  natural  rights  of  man.  Such 
is  the  inconsistency  of  human  nature." 
Eighteen  hundred  slaves  were  found  at 
Yorktown,  after  its  surrender,  and  restored 
to  their  masters.  Well  was  it  said  by  Dr. 
Barnes,  in  his  late  work  on  Slavery :  "  No 
slave  was  any  nearer  his  freedom  after  the 
surrender  of  Yorktown  than  when  Patrick 
Henry  first  taught  the  notes  of  liberty  to 
echo  among  the  hills  and  vales  of  Virginia." 

Page  98.  TH  K  CURSE  OF  THE  CHARTER- 
BREAKERS. 

The  rights  and  liberties  affirmed  by 
MAGNA  CHARTA  were  deemed  of  such 
importance,  in  the  thirteenth  century,  that 
the  Bishops,  twice  a  year,  with  tapers  burning, 
and  in  their  pontifical  robes,  pronounced, 
in  the  presence  of  the  king  and  the  repre- 
sentatives of  the  estates  of  England,  the 
greater  excommunication  against  the  in- 


fringer  of  that  instrument.  The  imposing 
ceremony  took  place  in  the  great  Hall  of 
Westminster.  A  copy  of  the  curse,  as  pro- 
nounced in  1253,  declares  that,  "  by  the 
authority  of  Almighty  God,  and  the  blessed 
Apostles  and  Martyrs,  and  all  the  saints  in 
heaven,  all  those  who  violate  the  English 
liberties,  and  secretly  or  openly,  by  deed, 
word,  or  counsel,  do  make  statutes,  or  ob- 
serve them  being  made,  against  said  liberties, 
are  accursed  and  sequestered  from  the  com- 
pany of  heaven  and  the  sacraments  of  the 
Holy  Church." 

WILLIAM  PENN,  in  his  admirable  politi- 
cal pamphlet,  "  England's  Present  Interest 
considered,"  alluding  to  the  curse  of  the 
Charter-breakers,  says  :  "  I  am  no  Roman 
Catholic,  and  little  value  their  other  curses; 
yet  I  declare  I  would  not  for  the  world  incur 
this  curse,  as  every  man  deservedly  doth, 
who  offers  violence  to  the  fundamental  free- 
dom thereby  repeated  and  confirmed." 

Page  117.    THE  VAUDOIS  TEACHER. 

"  The  manner  in  which  the  Waldenses 
and  heretics  disseminated  their  princi- 
ples among  the  Catholic  gentry,  was  by 
carrying  with  them  a  box  of  trinkets,  or 
articles  of  dress.  Having  entered  the  houses 
of  the  gentry  and  disposed  of  some  of  their 
goods,  they  cautiously  intimated  that  they 
had  commodities  far  more  valuable  than 
these,  —  inestimable  jewels,  which  they 
would  show  if  they  could  be  protected  from 
the  clergy.  They  would  then  give  their 
purchasers  a  Bible  or  Testament;  and 
thereby  many  were  deluded  into  heresy."  — 
K.  Saccho. 
•  Page  136.  CHALKLEY  HALL. 

Chalkley  Hall,  near  Frankford,  Pa.,  the 
residence  of  THOMAS  CHALKLEY,  an  emi- 
nent minister  of  the  Friends'  denomination. 
He  was  one  of  the  early  settlers  of  the 
Colony,  and  his  Journal,  which  was  pub- 
lished in  1749.,  presents  a  quaint  but 
beautiful  picture  of  a  life  of  unostentatious 
and  simple  goodness.  He  was  the  master 
of  a  merchant  vessel,  and,  in  his  visits  to 
the  West  Indies  and  Great  Britain,  omitted 
no  opportunity  to  labor  for  the  highest 
interests  of  his  fellow-men.  During  a  tem- 
porary residence  in  Philadelphia,  in  the 
summer  of  1838,  the  quiet  and  beautiful 


NOTES. 


359 


scenery  around  the  ancient  village  of  Frank- 
ford  frequently  attracted  me  from  the  heat 
and  bustle  of  the  city. 

Page    140.     The  great  Augustine. 

August.  Sililoq.  cap.  xxxi.  "  Interrogavi 
Terram,"  &c. 

Page  142.     And  beauty  is  its  own  excuse. 

For  the  idea  of  this  line,  I  am  indebted 
to  Emerson,  in  his  inimitable  sonnet  to  the 
Rhodora,  — 

"If  eyes  were  made  for  seeing, 
Then  Beauty  is'its  own  excuse  for  being." 

Page  153.    BARCLAY  OF  URY. 

Among  the  earliest  converts  to  the  doc- 
trines of  Friends  in  Scotland  was  Barclay 
of  Ury,  an  old  and  distinguished  soldier, 
who  had  fought  under  Gustavus  Adolphus, 
in  Germany.  As  a  Quaker,  he  became 
the  object  of  persecution  and  abuse  at  the 
hands  of  the  magistrates  and  the  populace. 
None  bore  the  indignities  of  the  mob  with 
greater  patience  and  nobleness  of  soul  than 
this  once  proud  gentleman  and  soldier. 
One  of  his  friends,  on  an  occasion  of  un- 
common rudeness,  lamented  that  he  should 
be  treated  so  harshly  in  his  old  age  who 
had  been  so  honored  before.  "  I  find 
more  satisfaction,"  said  Barclay,  "  as  well  as 
honor,  in  being  thus  insulted  for  my  reli- 
gious principles,  than  when,  a  few  years  ago, 
it  was  usual  for  the  magistrates,  as  I  passed 
the  city  of  Aberdeen,  to  meet  me  on  the 
road  and  conduct  me  to  public  entertain- 
ment in  their  hall,  and  then  escort  me  out 
again,  to  gain  my  favor." 

Page  167.    LUCY  HOOPER. 

Lucy  Hooper  died  at  Brooklyn,  L.  I.,  on 
the  ist  of  8th  mo.,  1841,  aged  24  years. 

Page  168.     CHANNING. 

The  last  time  I  saw  Dr.  Channing  was 
in  the  summer  of  1841,  when,  in  company 
with  my  English  friend,  Joseph  Sturge, 
so  well  known  for  his  philanthropic  labors 
and  liberal  political  opinions,  I  visited 
him  in  his  summer  residence  in  Rhode 
Island.  In  recalling  the  impressions  of  that 
visit,  it  can  scarcely  be  necessary  to  say,  that 
I  have  no  reference  to  the  peculiar  religious 
opinions  of  a  man  whose  life,  beautifully  and 
truly  manifested  above  the  atmosphere  of 
sect,  is  now  the  world's  common  legacy. 


Page  171.     Sibmatis  vine. 

"  O  vine  of  Sibmah !  I  will  weep  for  thee 
with  the  weeping  of  Jazer!"  —  Jeremiah 
xlviii.  32. 

Page  175.  To  MY  FRIEND  ON  THE 
DEATH  OF' HIS  SISTER. 

Sophia  Sturge,  sister  of  Joseph  Sturge, 
of  Birmingham,  the  President  ot  the  Brit- 
ish Complete  Suffrage  Association,  died 
in  the  6th  month,  1845.  She  was  the  col- 
league, counsellor,  and  ever-ready  helpmate 
of  her  brother  in  all  his  vast  designs  of 
beneficence.  The  Birmingham  Pilot  says 
of  her:  "Never,  perhaps,  were  the  active 
and  passive  virtues  of  the  human  character 
more  harmoniously  and  beautifully  blended 
than  in  this  excellent  woman." 

Page   177.     The  Smile  of  God. 

Winnipiseogee :  "  Smile  of  the  Great 
Spirit." 

Page  180.    THE  LEGEND  OF  ST.  MARK. 

This  legend  is  the  subject  of  a  cele- 
brated picture  by  Tintoretto,  of  which 
Mr.  Rogers  possesses  the  original  sketch. 
The  slave  lies  on  the  ground,  amid  a  crowd 
of  spectators,  who  look  on,  animated  by  all 
the  various  emotions  of  sympathy,  rage, 
terror;  a  woman,  in  front,  with  a  child  in 
her  arms,  has  always  been  admired  for  the 
life-like  vivacity  of  her  attitude  and  expres- 
sion. The  executioner  holds  up  the  broken 
implements;  St.  Mark,  with  a  headlong 
movement,  seems  to  rush  down  from  heaven 
in  haste  to  save  his  worshipper.  The  dra- 
matic grouping  in  this  picture  is  wonder- 
ful ;  the  coloring,  in  its  gorgeous  depth 
and  harmony,  is,  in  Mr.  Rogers's  sketch, 
finer  than  in  the  picture.  —  Mrs.  Jamieson's 
Poetry  of  Sacred  and  Legendary  Art,  Vol.  I. 
p.  121. 

Page  181.   THE  WELL  OF  LOCH  MAREE. 

Pennant,  in  his  "Voyage  to  the  Heb- 
rides," describes  the  holy  well  of  Loch 
Maree,  the  waters  of  which  were  supposed 
to  effect  a  miraculous  cure  of  melancholy, 
trouble,  and  insanity. 

Page  183.  To  PJU'S  IX. 
The  writer  of  these  lines  is  no  enemy 
of  Catholics.  He  has,  on  more  than 
one  occasion,  exposed  himself  to  the 
censures  of  his  Protestant  brethren,  by  his 
strenuous  endeavors  to  procure  indemni- 


NOTES. 


fication  for  the  owners  of  the  convent  de- 
stroyed near  Boston.  He  defended  the  cause 
of  the  Irish  patriots  long  before  it  had  be- 
come popular  in  this  country ;  and  he  was 
one  of  the  first  to  urge  the  most  liberal  aid 
to  the  suffering  and  starving  population  of 
the  Catholic  island.  The  severity  of  his 
language  finds  its  ample  apology  in  the 
reluctant  confession  of  one  of  the  most 
eminent  Romish  priests,  the  eloquent  and 
devoted  Father  Ventura. 

Page  184.    ELLIOTT. 

Ebenezer  Elliott,  the  intelligence  of 
whose  death  has  recently  reached  us,  was, 
to  the  artisans  of  England,  what  Burns 
was  to  the  peasantry  of  Scotland.  His 
"  Corn-law  Rhymes "  contributed  not  a 
little  to  that  overwhelming  tide  of  popular 
opinion  and  feeling  which  resulted  in  the 
repeal  of  the  tax  on  bread.  Well  has  the 
eloquent  author  of  "  The  Reforms  and  Re- 
formers of  Great  Britain"  said  of  him,  "  Not 
corn-law  repealers  alone,  but  all  Britons 
who  moisten  their  scanty  bread  with  the 
sweat  of  the  brow,  are  largely  indebted  to 
his  inspiring  lay,  for  the  mighty  bound 
which  the  laboring  mind  of  England  has 
taken  in  our  day." 

Page  186.     THE  CHRISTIAN  TOURISTS. 

The  reader  of  the  Biography  of  the  late 
William  Allen,  the  philanthropic  associate 
of  Clarkson  and  Romilly,  cannot  fail  to 
admire  his  simple  and  beautiful  record 
of  a  tour  through  Europe,  in  the  years  1818 
and  1819,  in  the  company  of  his  American 
friend,  Stephen  Grellett. 

Page  194.     Thou  'mind'st  me  of  a  story 

told, 

In  rare  Bernardiris  leaves  of 
gold. 

The  incident  here  referred  to  is  related  in 
a  note  to  Bernardin  Henri  Saint  Pierre's 
Etudes  de  la  Nature. 

"  We  arrived  at  the  habitation  of  the  Her- 
mits a  little  before  they  sat  down  to  their 
table,  and  while  they  were  still  at  church. 
J.  J.  Rousseau  proposed  to  me  to  offer  up 
our  devotions.  The  hermits  were  reciting 
the  Litanies  of  Providence,  which  are  re- 
markably beautiful.  Afterwe  had  addressed 
our  prayers  to  God,  and  the  hermits  were 
proceeding  to  the  refectory,  Rousseau  said 


to  me,  with  his  heart  overflowing,  '  At  this 
moment  I  experience  what  is  said  in  the 
gospel :  Where  two  or  three  are  gathered 
together  in  my  name,  there  am  1  in  the  midst 
of  them.  There  is  here  a  feeling  of  peace 
and  happiness  which  penetrates  the  soul.' 
I  said,  '  If  Fenelon  had  lived,  you  would 
have  been  a  Catholic.'  He  exclaimed,  with 
tears  in  his  eyes,  '  O,  if  Fenelon  were  alive, 
I  would  struggle  to  get  into  his  service,  even 
as  a  lackey! '  " 

In  my  sketch  of  Saint  Pierre,  it  will  be 
seen  that  I  have  somewhat  antedated  the 
period  of  his  old  age.  At  that  time  he  was 
not  probably  more  than  fifty.  In  describing 
him,  I  have  by  no  means  exaggerated  his 
own  history  of  his  mental  condition  at  the 
period  of  the  story.  In  the  fragmentary 
Sequel  to  his  Studies  of  Nature,  he  thus 
speaks  of  himself:  "The  ingratitude  of 
those  of  whom  I  had  deserved  kindness, 
unexpected  family  misfortunes,  the  total 
loss  of  my  small  patrimony  through  enter- 
prises solely  undertaken  for  the  benefit  of 
my  country,  the  debts  under  which  I  lay 
oppressed,  the  blasting  of  all  my  hopes, — 
these  combined  calamities  made  dreadful 
inroads  upon  my  health  and  reason  ...  I 
found  it  impossible  to  continue  in  a  room 
where  there  was  company,  especially  if  the 
doors  were  shut.  I  could  not  even  cross 
an  alley  in  a  public  garden,  if  several  per- 
sons had  got  together  in  it.  When  alone, 
my  malady  subsided.  I  felt  myself  likewise 
at  ease  in  places  where  I  saw  children  only. 
At  the  sight  of  any  one  walking  up  to  the 
place  where  I  was,  I  felt  my  whole  frame 
agitated,  and  retired.  I  often  said  to  my- 
self, '  My  sole  study  has  been  to  merit  well 
of  mankind ;  why  do  I  fear  them  ?  '  " 

He  attributes  his  improved  health  of  mind 
and  body  to  the  counsels  of  his  friend,  J.  J. 
Rousseau.  "  I  renounced,"  says  he,  "  my 
books.  I  threw  my  eyes  upon  the  works  of 
nature,  which  spake  to  all  my  senses  a  lan- 
guage which  neither  time  nor  nations  have 
it  in  their  power  to  alter.  Thenceforth  my 
histories  and  my  journals  were  the  herbage 
of  the  fields  and  meadows.  My  thoughts 
did  not  go  forth  painfully  after  them,  as 
in  the  case  of  human  systems;  but  their 
thoughts,  under  a  thousand  engaging  forms, 


NOTES. 


quietly  sought  me.  In  these  I  studied,  with- 
out effort,  the  laws  of  that  Universal  Wisdom 
which  had  surrounded  me  from  the  cradle, 
but  on  which  heretofore  I  had  bestowed 
little  attention." 

Speaking  of  Rousseau,  he  says :  "  I  de- 
rived inexpressible  satisfaction  from  his 
society.  What  I  prized  still  more  than  his 
genius,  was  his  probity.  He  was  one  of 
the  few  literary  characters,  tried  in  the  fur- 
nace of  affliction,  to  whom  you  could,  with 
perfect  security,  confide  your  most  secret 
thoughts.  .  .  .  Even  when  he  deviated,  and 
became  the  victim  of  himself  or  of  others, 
he  could  forget  his  own  misery  in  devotion 
to  the  welfare  of  mankind.  He  was  uni- 
formly the  advocate  of  the  miserable.  There 
might  be  inscribed  on  his  tomb  these  affect- 
ing words  from  that  Book  of  which  he  car- 
ried always  about  him  some  select  passages, 
during  the  last  years  of  his  life :  His  sins, 
which  are  many,  are  forgiven,  for  he  loved 
much" 

Page  195.  Like  that  the  gray-haired  sea- 
king  passed. 

Dr.  Hooker,  who  accompanied  Sir  James 
Ross  in  his  expedition  of  1841,  thus  de- 
scribes the  appearance  of  that  unknown  land 
of  frost  and  fire  which  was  seen  in  latitude 
77°  south,  —  a  stupendous  chain  of  moun- 
tains, the  whole  mass  of  which,  from  its 
highest  point  to  the  ocean,  was  covered 
with  everlasting  snow  and  ice  :  — 

"  The  water  and  the  sky  were  both  as 
blue,  or  rather  more  intensely  blue,  than  I 
have  ever  seen  them  in  the  tropics,  and  all 
the  coast  was  one  mass  of  dazzlingly  beauti- 
ful peaks  of  snow,  which,  when  the  sun  ap- 
proached the  horizon,  reflected  the  most 
brilliant  tints  of  golden  yellow  and  scarlet; 
and  then,  to  see  the  dark  cloud  of  smoke, 
tinged  with  flame,  rising  from  the  volcano 
in  a  perfect  unbroken  column,  one  side  jet- 
black,  the  other  giving  back  the  colors  of 
the  sun,  sometimes  turning  off  at  a  right 
angle  by  some  current  of  wind,  and  stretch- 
ing many  miles  to  leeward  !  This  was  a  sight 
so  surpassing  everything  that  can  be  imag- 
ined, and  so  heightened  by  the  consciousness 
that  we  had  penetrated,  under  the  guidance 
of  our  commander,  into  regions  far  beyond 
what  was  ever  deemed  practicable,  that  it 


caused  a  feeling  of  awe  to  steal  over  us  at 
the  consideration  of  our  own  comparative 
insignificance  and  helplessness,  and  at  the 
same  time  an  indescribable  feeling  of  the 
greatness  of  the  Creator  in  the  works  of  his 
hand." 

Page  203.     .  .  .     The  first  great  triumph 

won 
In  Freedom  s  name. 

The  election  of  Charles  Sumner  to  the 
U.S.  Senate  "  followed  hard  upon  "  the  ren- 
dition of  the  fugitive  Sims  by  the  U.S.  offi- 
cials and  the  armed  police  of  Boston. 

Page  207.    DERNE. 

The  storming  of  the  city  of  Derne,  in 
1805,  by  General  Eaton,  at  the  head  of  nine 
Americans,  forty  Greeks,  and  a  motley  array 
of  Turks  and  Arabs,  was  one  of  those  feats 
of  hardihood  and  daring  which  have  in  all 
ages  attracted  the  admiration  of  the  multi- 
tude. The  higher  and  holier  heroism  of 
Christian  self-denial  and  sacrifice,  in  the 
humble  walks  of  private  duty,  is  seldom  so 
well  appreciated. 

Page  211.    To  FREDRIKA  BREMER. 

It  is  proper  to  say  that  these  lines  are  the 
joint  impromptu  of  my  sister  and  myself. 
They  are  inserted  here  as  an  expression 
of  our  admiration  of  the  gifted  stranger 
whom  we  have  since  learned  to  love  as  a 
friend. 

Page  215.    KATHLEEN. 

This  ballad  was  originally  published  in  a 
prose  work  of  the  author's,  as  the  song  of  a 
wandering  Milesian  schoolmaster. 

In  the  seventeenth  century,  slavery  in  the 
New  World  was  by  no  means  confined  to 
the  natives  of  Africa.  Political  offenders 
and  criminals  were  transported  by  the  Brit- 
ish government  to  the  plantations  of  Barba- 
does  and  Virginia,  where  they  were  sold 
like  cattle  in  the  market.  Kidnapping  of 
free  and  innocent  white  persons  was  prac- 
tised to  a  considerable  extent  in  the  seaports 
of  the  United  Kingdom. 

Page  218.     KOSSUTH. 

It  can  scarcely  be  necessary  to  say  that 
there  are  elements  in  the  character  and 
passages  in  the  history  of  the  great  Hun- 
garian statesman  and  orator,  which  neces- 
sarily command  the  admiration  of  those, 
even,  who  believe  that  no  political  revolu- 


362 


NOTES. 


tion  was  ever  worth  the  price  of  human 
blood. 

Page  220.  Homilies  from  Oldbug 
hear. 

Dr.  W ,  author  of  "The  Puritan," 

under  the  name  of  Jonathan  Oldbug. 

Page  236.    WILLIAM  FORSTER. 

William  Forster,  of  Norwich,  England, 
died  in  East  Tennessee,  in  the  ist  month, 
1854,  while  engaged  in  presenting  to  the 
governors  of  the  States  of  this  Union  the 
address  of  his  religious  society  on  the  evils 
of  slavery.  He  was  the  relative  and  co- 
adjutor of  the  Buxtons,  Gurneys,  and 
Frys ;  and  his  whole  life,  extending  almost 
to  threescore  and  ten  years,  was  a  pure  and 
beautiful  example  of  Christian  benevolence. 
He  had  travelled  over  Europe,  and  visited 
most  of  its  sovereigns,  to  plead  against  the 
slave-trade  and  slavery ;  and  had  twice 
before  made  visits  to  this  country,  under 
impressions  of  religious  duty. 

Page  237.    RANTOUL. 

No  more  fitting  inscription  could  be 
placed  on  the  tombstone  of  Robert  Rantoul 
than  this :  "  He  died  at  his  post  in  Con- 
gress, and  his  last  words  were  a  protest  in 
the  name  of  Democracy  against  the  Fugi- 
tive-Slave Law." 

Page   252.       SONGS   OF  SLAVES  IN  THE 

DESERT. 

"  Sebah,  Oasis  of  Fezzan,  loth  March, 
1846.  —  This  evening  the  female  slaves 
were  unusually  excited  in  singing,  and  I 
had  the  curiosity  to  ask  my  negro  ser- 
vant, Said,  what  they  were  singing  about. 
As  many  of  them  were  natives  of  his  own 
country,  he  had  no  difficulty  in  translating 
the  Mandara  or  Bornou  language.  I  had 
often  asked  the  Moors  to  translate  4heir 
songs  for  me,  but  got  no  satisfactory  account 
from  them.  Said  at  first  said,  '  O,  they  sing 
of  Rubee'  (God).  '  What  do  you  mean  ?  ' 
I  replied  impatiently.  '  O,  don't  you  know? ' 
he  continued, '  they  asked  God  to  give  them 
their  Atka'  (certificate  of  freedom).  I 
inquired,  'Is  that  all?'  Said:  'No;  they 
say,  "  Where  are  we  going  ?  The  world  is 
large.  O  God!  Where  are  we  going?  O 
God/"'  I  inquired,  '  What  else  ?'  Said: 
'  They  remember  their  country,  Bornou,  and 
say,  "  Bornou  was  a  pleasant  country,  full 


of  all  good  things  ;  but  this  is  a  bad  country, 
and  we  are  miserable /"'  '  Do  they  say 
anything  else  ?  '  Said :  '  No ;  they  repeat 
these  words  over  and  over  again,  and  add, 
"  O  God !  give  us  our  Atka,  and  let  us  re- 
turn again  to  our  dear  home"  ' 

"  I  am  not  surprised  I  got  little  satisfac- 
tion when  I  asked  the  Moors  about  the 
songs  of  their  slaves.  Who  will  say  that 
the  above  words  are  not  a  very  appro- 
priate song  ?  What  could  have  been  more 
congenially  adapted  to  their  then  woful  con- 
dition ?  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that 
these  poor  bondwomen  cheer  up  their 
hearts,  in  their  long,  lonely,  and  painful 
wanderings  over  the  desert,  with  words  and 
sentiments  like  these ;  but  I  have  often  ob- 
served that  their  fatigue  and  sufferings  were 
too  great  for  them  to  strike  up  this  melan- 
choly dirge,  and  many  days  their  plaintive 
strains  never  broke  over  the  silence  of  the 
desert."  —  Richardson's  Journal. 

Page  253.    THE  NKW  EXODUS. 

One  of  the  latest  and  most  interesting 
items  of  Eastern  news  is  the  statement 
that  Slavery  has  been  formally  and  totally 
abolished  in  Egypt. 

Page  269.  THE  CONQUEST  OF  FIN- 
LAND. 

A  letter  from  England,  in  the  Friends' 
Review,  says:  "Joseph  Sturge,  with  a 
companion,  Thomas  Harvey,  has  been 
visiting  the  shores  of  Finland,  to  ascertain 
the  amount  of  mischief  and  loss  to  poor 
and  peaceable  sufferers,  occasioned  by  the 
gunboats  of  the  Allied  squadrons  in  the 
late  war,  with  a  view  to  obtaining  relief  for 
them." 

Page  285.    TELLING  THE  BEES. 

A  remarkable  custom,  brought  from  the 
Old  Country,  formerly  prevailed  in  the  rural 
districts  of  New  England.  On  the  death 
of  a  member  of  the  family,  the  bees  were 
at  once  informed  of  the  event,  and  their 
hives  dressed  in  mourning.  This  ceremon- 
ial was  supposed  to  be  necessary  to  prevent 
the  swarms  from  leaving  their  hives  and 
seeking  a  new  home. 

Page  297.  O  Beauty,  old  yet  ever 
new! 

"  Too  late  I  loved  Thee,  O  Beauty  of 
ancient  days,  yet  ever  new !  And  lo  !  Thou 


NOTES. 


363 


wert  within,  and  I  abroad  searching  for  thee. 
Thou  wert  with  me,  but  I  was  not  with 
Thee."  —  August.  Soliloq.,  Book  X. 

Page  297.     Tides  of  everlasting  Day. 

"  And  I  saw  that  there  was  an  Ocean  of 
Darkness  and  Death  :  but  an  infinite  Ocean 
of  Light  and  Love  flowed  over  the  Ocean  of 
Darkness:  And  in  that  I  saw  the  infinite 
Love  of  God." —  George  Fox's  Journal. 


Page  306.    LE  MARAIS  DU  CYNGE. 

The  massacre  of  unarmed  and  unoffend- 
ing men,  in  Southern  Kansas,  took  place 
near  the  Marais  du  Cygne  of  the  French 
voyageurs. 

Page  321.    THE  QUAKER  ALUMNI. 

Read  at  the  Friends'  School  Anni- 
versary, Providence,  R.  I.,  6th  mo., 
1860. 


